


Hazard Light

by cerkowah, EatYourSparkOut, Emporianne



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Chronic Illness, Developing Relationship, Dubious Science, Emetophobia, Feelings Realization, Hanahaki Disease, Hiding Medical Issues, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Perceptor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Destructive Tendencies, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerkowah/pseuds/cerkowah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emporianne/pseuds/Emporianne
Summary: In the aftermath of the time travel incident, Perceptor made a resolution to get to know his lab partner better. He didn’t anticipate that he’d grow so fond of Brainstorm in the process. Blindsided by a rare and deadly illness, he realizes that he’s miscalculated the depths of his regard.Perceptor is determined to study and cure the disease with Brainstorm none the wiser. Unfortunately, feelings have never been his area of expertise.(Hanahaki AU)





	Hazard Light

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I know it’s been like 6 months, but I’m here to reassure you all that I did _not_, in fact, disappear off the face of the earth. My entire summer has more or less gone into THIS project- a contribution to the 2019 TF Big Bang!
> 
> I've been wanting to do a TF hanahaki fic for ages, and drew a lot of my inspiration from [this post](https://tftomfoolery.tumblr.com/post/173003331416/hanahaki-disease-transformers-version). 
> 
> My collaborators on this project have been [@cerkowah](https://twitter.com/cerkowah), [@DuboisSiloe](https://twitter.com/DuboisSiloe), and [Emporianne](https://emporianne.tumblr.com/), who've all created _gorgeous_ works of art for the fic. I’m so grateful to them for wanting to take part in this labour of love, and I’ll be linking all of their pieces directly in the end notes. 
> 
> My writing playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0HjwUDIFYQnU6zhkfMfVC1?si=YadPpJGIT5mgsgnUFpfrtQ).
> 
> A big thank you to my unofficial co-writer, supportive s/o, and font of chaotic energy [brittnbiscuits](https://twitter.com/brittnbiscuits) who inspired so many of the Whirl & Brainstorm scenes. Certain characters come more naturally to me (see: Perceptor) and they were an enormous help. Likewise, thank you to all of my friends who acted as my sounding boards and betas <3
> 
> Finally, I'd like to add an additional warning for internalized ableism throughout this fic. Perceptor doesn't always have the best views re: his illness, mental health, and missing optic, but he's figuring it out.

The first thing that Perceptor noticed upon waking was the ache.

This was no _figurative_ ache. It was deep and incessant, gripping his internals with a veracity which startled him. The sensation was concentrated just beneath the thick glass and reinforced armor that sheltered his spark, and he couldn’t help but wince as he rose to a seated position. The throb of it resounded in his struts, aggravated by the movement.

Operating on autopilot—his thoughts muddled by the unexpected pain—Perceptor pinged his chronometer. He was only mildly surprised to discover that he’d barely managed three cycles of recharge, and that his alarm wasn’t set to alert him for another four. It’d been a while since his cycle had been so abruptly compromised, but neither was it a new phenomenon. Indeed, he’d recharged sporadically for most of the war—a predictable response to the tension and unease brought on by the constant threat to one’s person. 

Perceptor’s fluxes had been at their worst post-departure from the Wreckers, his unconscious mind besieged by all manner of imagined threats. He’d quickly accepted the interrupted pattern as his new normal. After all, he’d done something few could claim—left the unit alive. It would be arrogant to assume that there would be no price. 

Encounters with Overlord tended to leave their mark on the psyche.

Perceptor diverted his thoughts from that path, lest he stir any unpleasant memories. Even thinking the name called up a pair of coal-bright optics, brimming with hate, and sent the ghost of a baleful laugh skittering across his processor. 

Another twinge—sharper than before—and Perceptor reached reflexively for the glass of his chestplate. He rubbed the spot in question, right above the stark red target of his Autobot brand, though he knew it would have no real palliative effect. 

Thankfully, the underlying ache appeared to be receding on its own, lending support to the theory that he had been ripped from recharge by an ill-timed flux. 

It would be the first in a while. Long-gone were the days of the academy, where Perceptor had been lauded by his peers for his ability to keep regular hours amidst the bustle of exams and research and still excel at his work. But his stint aboard the Lost Light had proven unexpectedly beneficial to his state of mind, tempering the fitful recharge of wartime to something more manageable. He had hoped that he’d finally put such grim fantasies behind him. 

Evidently not. 

It was a pity that he couldn’t recall anything—a snippet of the flux which might confirm his theory—but perhaps that was for the best. 

Though the ache had faded to a fraction of its former intensity, Perceptor knew that further rest was unlikely. Better for him to return to the laboratory, where he might make productive use of his time. 

He ignored the lingering sense of disquiet, and began arranging his itinerary to accommodate for the extra time. There was no point in dwelling on an anomaly which had faded nearly as quickly as it had occurred, not when he might focus on the day ahead instead. 

After all, there were samples to check—plans to be drawn. There was an ever-growing list of tasks and projects which would keep him from dwelling on any unfortunate reminders of the past. 

There was science to be done. 

The rest could wait.

***

Any hope that Perceptor had of stealing a few quiet cycles to himself evaporated as soon as he set foot in the lab. There was already an occupant—an _unauthorized_ one at that—monopolizing most of the workspace, with what looked like a dismantled pair of… well. He supposed the closest comparison he could make was to a ridiculous earth novelty that Verity had shown him once. She’d called them _Moon Shoes_.

The most immediate difference between that nonsensical advertisement and this pair was that these appeared to be... weaponized. 

Some time ago, Perceptor might have been irritated by the scene. Now, he found himself more exasperated than anything, and surprise didn’t even rank amongst his feelings as he surveyed the carnage. 

In all honesty, he’d suspected for a while now that Brainstorm wasn’t adhering precisely to the terms of his parole. It wouldn’t have been like him to so meekly accept the laboratory restrictions imposed on him—not when he was loathe to follow the rules of conduct under _ordinary_ circumstances. 

Perceptor himself was guilty of letting such misdemeanors slide. As the lab supervisor, he was responsible for enforcing the restrictions imposed by command, but he had to profess that he’d found something _distasteful_ about his role in the inhibition of Brainstorm’s ingenuity. He understood the logic of the ruling, of course; precautions had been necessary after the time-travel incident. 

However, in the stellar cycle that had since passed, Brainstorm had proven himself a reliable—if sometimes reckless—member of the crew. It seemed unfair to continue to stifle him—to restrict him within the environment where he was happiest. 

Perceptor had found he quite enjoyed seeing Brainstorm happy. 

He cleared his throat. 

No response. 

“Brainstorm.” 

Evidently unprepared for the sound of his voice, Brainstorm’s head shot up, and the sound of metal colliding on metal reverberated throughout the laboratory. 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first dent the fume hood had sustained. 

“_Ow_? Geez, Perce. Warn a guy before you interrupt his private time,” Brainstorm complained, rubbing at the matching ding in the front of his helm. 

Perceptor ignored the insinuation in favour of the winking security camera. While he wasn’t fazed by Brainstorm’s presence in the laboratory, he _was_ mildly surprised that no one had ventured down to reprimand him yet.

Brainstorm followed the direction of his gaze. When he saw what Perceptor was looking at, his optics narrowed impishly. 

“Puh-lease. Security dove straight into the smelter after Red bailed,” Brainstorm said, and Perceptor could tell that he was grinning behind the mask. “Lab’s on a loop. I borrowed some deflection panelling from Ravage, in case someone actually notices, but let’s be real—floating wrenches would _not_ be the weirdest thing they’ve seen in this lab.”

“I’m surprised that Ravage acquiesced to that.” Especially considering that Brainstorm’s status as a faux decepticon was unlikely to endear him to the loyalist. 

Brainstorm waved his servo dismissively. 

“Whatever, I owe him a favour.” 

Perceptor raised an eyebrow ridge. Now _that_ was cause for concern. He wondered if Megatron knew that Brainstorm was shirking his punishment. That Ravage knew wasn’t a guarantee; there’d been an uncharacteristically thick tension between the ex-warlord and his former spy ever since they'd come aboard. 

Sensing his disapproval, Brainstorm rushed to defend himself.

“Hey, I’m not happy about it either, but it’s not my fault the invisibility vaseline didn’t work out. Too slippery, don’t ask—” 

That conjured up an entire array of images that Perceptor didn’t want to dwell on. 

“—but accidents aside, it was _genius_. It scrambled the light and left me _completely_ undetectable via video feed!” Brainstorm exclaimed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, near the seam of his faceplate. “I would have used it, if it hadn’t left me _doubly_ detectable IRL.”

Perceptor was sorry to say the images now featured an abnormally shiny Brainstorm.  
He was beginning to get a headache. Perhaps it was time for a topic change. 

“You know you aren’t supposed to be here alone,” he said, for the sake of convention. He supposed he ought to at least attempt to fulfill his obligation by reminding Brainstorm of proper procedure, though they both knew he wouldn’t be filing a report. 

Brainstorm flapped a servo dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But how am I supposed to get anything done when you’re running on a _schedule_?” he asked. He said ‘schedule’ like a dirty word. “Genius like mine can’t be contained to 8 cycles a day. Science stops for _no_ man, Perce.” 

“It does, however, require recharge. As do the mecha engaged in it,” Perceptor countered dryly, though he could acknowledge the hypocrisy of that statement in this exact moment. “You’re liable to make mistakes when you’re tired, and if you set the lab on fire after-hours I don’t believe Ultra Magnus will be particularly forgiving.” 

“And if I do?” Brainstorm asked. “You gonna give me up? Make me cry… ♫?” 

Perceptor pinched his nasal ridge.

The fact of the matter was that he trusted Brainstorm. That in and of itself was questionable, from a purely deductive standpoint. Brainstorm was—technically—a former decepticon. He was prone to causing all manner of accidents in the laboratory through sheer negligence. He possessed a brilliance that bordered on dangerous, with little impulse control to contain it. 

And yet, Perceptor trusted him. He was an uncompromising mech, learning to do just that. 

“No,” he finally sighed. “But please, if you’re going to blatantly disregard the conditions outlined by your parole then at least do me the courtesy of informing me beforehand—so that I might prepare a plausible explanation. The responsibility is still mine.” And Brainstorm was not subtle, whatever he might think. 

“Oooh, I never thought I’d see the day _Perceptor_ became an accessory,” intoned Brainstorm. “To _trespassing_, even.” He wiggled his eyebrows with the next proclamation. “I’m rubbing off on you.” 

Perceptor quirked the same eyebrow as before. Sometimes it seemed it never got a break in Brainstorm’s presence.

“I have full license to be here,” he pointed out. “Nonetheless, I believe my reputation could withstand the tarnish of a minor misdemeanor”.

“I guess a dressing down from Magnus is nothing compared to a lambasting from Impactor eh, Perce?” 

Enjoying the banter up until now, Perceptor faltered—the comment too reminiscent of what had sent him seeking solace in the laboratory in the first place. He drew himself up, and responded with a stiff “quite”.

Some of the light left Brainstorm's optics, and Perceptor’s spark twinged unexpectedly. He knew that it wasn’t Brainstorm’s fault, of course; he couldn’t have known the source of his turmoil. 

Perceptor cleared his vocalizer, and looked across the chaos of their shared workspace. The mess had spread beyond the main table, creeping over to his side of the laboratory like a cancerous growth. He supposed that the disorder held some bizarre meaning to Brainstorm, but he couldn’t make any sense of it. 

“What is it exactly that you’re working on?” Perceptor asked. He wasn’t so naive as to think that this was on the list of pre-approved projects he’d signed off on. 

As predicted, expressing an interest in the project caused Brainstorm to reignite with enthusiasm. 

“Okay, so don’t get mad, but—”

As Perceptor listened to Brainstorm wax poetic about the cataclysmic properties of seismic disruptors, he discovered a rare smile tugging at his lips. The project was wildly irresponsible—and couldn’t be called useful by anyone’s definition—but the sheer glee with which Brainstorm relayed his progress was catching. By the end of his explanation, any lingering nightmares from Perceptor’s past had been firmly corralled and shut back into their respective compartments. 

“I can’t honestly say that I see the merit of such an idea,” he remarked, once Brainstorm had finished. “And it’s certainly not something which I should give my consent for.” He let a modicum of amusement creep into his voice. “But then, I’ve never known that to stop you.”

That was full grounds for permission, and Brainstorm knew it. 

“You’re a real peach, Perce” Brainstorm said brightly, and Perceptor warmed at the colloquial address; he’d long given up on asking Brainstorm to stop bestowing nicknames on him, and while he was used to the informal shortening of his name, anything else was liable to catch him off guard.

“I would also appreciate the use of my half of the laboratory.” 

“My genius _cannot_ be contained, Perceptor.”

“But it can, perhaps, be moved to the shared workstation.”

“Semantics.” 

Perceptor shook his head, and made the short journey to his station. He had already begun gathering the scattered parts when he stilled. Precaution was advisable when dealing with Brainstorm’s experiments, and on an ordinary day he wouldn’t have been so hasty. 

“Need I be concerned about any of this exploding in my face?” 

“Hm? Nah, you’re good. They’re stable- touch all you want.” 

Perceptor paused, oddly caught by the phrasing. He shook it off, and a few moments later he was dumping the parts unceremoniously onto their shared table—in spite of Brainstorm’s outraged ‘_hey, careful_’. He proceeded to pull up the files on the experiment he’d been engaged in yesterday, and without further ado, began preparing the necessary equipment. 

“Let’s keep the fires to a minimum today, shall we?” he asked wryly. 

“Some mechs have no appreciation for the thrill of discovery,” Brainstorm sniffed in reply. 

They worked in comfortable silence for a time, which was uncharacteristic—for while Perceptor was content with silence, Brainstorm worked to music more often than not, and chatted in the interim. He never seemed to mind that Perceptor was a stilted conversationalist at best, awkward and stuffy at worst. 

Brainstorm was more perceptive than he let on, however. Perhaps he had simply teeked Perceptor’s desire for quietude. Whatever the case, it was appreciated. 

In fact, despite the initial wrench that Brainstorm’s presence had thrown into his plans, Perceptor was glad of it now. He’d sought solitude out of habit, but in a way, Brainstorm was more grounding. He had grown used to their routine, and the way that Brainstorm mumbled and muttered in the background—scribbling notes haphazardly across every available surface—was more reassuring than the icy silence of an empty laboratory. 

He found himself casting the occasional glance in his direction, noting the way that Brainstorm tapped his stylus against the table when he was thinking, or the manner in which his ailerons fluttered when he made significant progress. 

Unfortunately, Perceptor was finding it difficult to focus himself. The ache had returned with a vengeance, acute and unprovoked. Perhaps he should take his own advice and visit Ratchet for a recharge-aid. He suspected that overwork, in combination with insufficient rest, was at least partially responsible for his current state. 

Distracted by his discomfort, Perceptor miscalculated the distance to a beaker. The beaker in question contained a corrosive substance, and knocking it over was immediately disastrous. He found himself too sluggish to halt its descent, and as the lip hit the table some of it splattered against his armor. he spared a moment to be thankful the substance had no detrimental effects on sentio metallico. 

The table was another matter altogether. Upon impact, the acidic compound began to eat away at the surface and Perceptor cursed, scrambling for an absorbent cloth. 

Brainstorm was quicker, rushing over with a multi-purpose extinguisher of their own design, and targeting the spill with welcome efficiency. Filled with a neutralizing agent meant to target several hazardous substances, the extinguisher worked. However, it was also the messier option, leaving Perceptor covered in a deluge of foam. 

“Whoops?” 

Perceptor merely sighed, staring wearily at the mess that’d become of his workstation. It seemed that today was not slated to be a successful one. 

A palm landed lightly on his shoulder, and Perceptor ignored the automatic urge to draw away. He wasn’t used to others touching him—something he partially encouraged by way of an icy demeanor—but he found he didn’t mind Brainstorm’s attempts. The rare contact ignited another slight pang from beneath his chestplate. 

“You okay? Usually I’m the one wrecking the place; I don’t know that it can handle two of us,” Brainstorm ribbed. 

“I’m… fine. Thank you.”

Perceptor was a rational mech—he didn’t believe in fate or cosmic forces outside of the realm of explanation—but as he stared down at the hole he’d left in the ship’s floor he had to wonder what he’d done to warrant this misfortune.

He didn’t have long to wonder, however, as his enhanced sensor suite alerted him to an abrupt increase in heat approximately 124.2 degrees from their position. It ignited as a bright spot on his HUD, and was followed by a faint whoosh. There was no need for him to look to confirm the ignition of Brainstorm’s work-in-progress. 

“_Brainstorm_.”

“I got it!” he cried, brandishing the extinguisher with unparallelled exuberance.

Perceptor snorted. 

Yes, the Lost Light had certainly done _something_ to his psyche.

***

To Perceptor’s annoyance, the symptoms did not abate.

A week later, he found that not only had the ache failed to subside, but it had grown more insistent than ever. No longer did he have stretches where it would fade entirely—giving him a few cycles’ respite. Instead, it simply fluctuated from bad to worse. 

On average the pain wasn’t unmanageable; it was dull enough that it merely hovered at the edge of his consciousness. However, it was enough that it was beginning to affect the quality of his work. 

Perceptor glanced about the laboratory. Brainstorm was suspiciously absent for once, which meant that this was the perfect opportunity for him to conduct a preliminary scan. He did not yet want to assume that something was grievously wrong; after all, the effects of stress on the frame were well-documented. Should the scan reveal something truly concerning, he would consider seeking Ratchet’s assistance. 

Perceptor’s fingers had barely wrapped around the scanner— ‘borrowed’ from medbay a the last time he’d felt poorly—when his internal comm rang. Startled, he dropped the scanner. It clattered against the counter—an obtrusive break in the silence—but thankfully sustained no damage. 

The blunder was unlike him. He hadn’t been expecting the call, but ordinarily his grip wouldn’t have been shaken so easily. He spared a glance at his servos. If he focused, he could discern a faint tingling sensation radiating from the tips of his fingers. It made him wonder if his extremities were not also exhibiting mild symptoms. 

Brainstorm’s icon continued to blink insistently at him in the corner of his HUD, and Perceptor accepted the incoming call. 

“Yes?” he answered absently, curling his fingers as he continued to observe their function. 

“Where are you?” 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. It was unlikely, but possible, that he’d neglected to mark down an appointment in his pad. He could only hope that this wasn’t another command meeting that Rodimus expected him to supervise attend. He’d delivered them a laboratory progress report 1.2 months ago; barring an incident with the ship or crew, he wouldn’t expect to be called on again so soon.

“Aw, don’t tell me you forgot,” Brainstorm complained. “I saved you a seat and everything.”

Perceptor sighed, tapping his stylus against the side of the table. 

“Forgot _what_, Brainstorm?”

“Ratchet’s going to lecture us on matters of the spark,” he said conspiratorially. “We’re gonna learn from a real _expert_. 

Ah, yes. The lecture series. Perceptor didn’t know what kind of lurid details Brainstorm was imagining, but he’d been privy to enough of Ratchet’s exploits, and quite frankly, didn’t need or _want_ to know any more than he already did. The lectures—a purely _academic_ exercise—would, in his view, be a welcome change from hearing about past liaisons. 

“The medical lecture which Ratchet has prepared for the health and safety of the crew, you mean,” he confirmed. 

“Pfft, whatever.” 

Perceptor hadn’t realized that the first topic Ratchet would be covering was spark health. It was sheer coincidence that it aligned with his current predicament, of course, and yet somehow it felt targeted. Perhaps that was a manifestation of his own guilt. Not only had he been avoiding Ratchet, but he had neglected to inform any of the medical staff of his symptoms. Nor had he made any public appearances where they might glean something of his troubles. 

He knew that beginning with sparks was the logical choice. The spark was an integral part of the frame, it was prone to a number of diseases and syndromes, and it was easier to break down into layman’s terms than the processor. Perceptor knew very well that Ratchet had been preparing this seminar since the diagnosis, and subsequent resolution of Tailgate’s cybercrosis. 

“I’m rather busy at the moment,” Perceptor finally said. He did not believe he would enjoy being at such a presentation right now. 

“C’mon Perce,” Brainstorm wheedled. ‘Magnus made it _mandatory_, and if I’m stuck here then I want to sit next to someone who won’t immediately put me to sleep. Highbrow is eyeing this seat and I'd rather review lab procedure than listen to him talk about the growth cycles of Szorian algae again. He’s into biology lately, but it’s not even the _fun_ stuff.” 

Perceptor hesitated. 

“Pleeease?” 

Perceptor appreciated the fact that Brainstorm thought him not just intelligent company, but good company. Most mecha didn’t. Perceptor was quite used to his echelon by this point; he was a resource, delivering excellence on demand.

The observation induced a rare warmth in him. He didn’t have much time to savour the feeling, however, as an unexpected bolt of pain ripped through his sensornet. He swallowed his instinctive gasp, and gripped the table in an attempt to ground himself against the onslaught. It was over in an instant, but left him reeling. 

“Percy? You there?”

“Yes. I’ll be there shortly,” Perceptor managed, before hanging up.

It was probably unwise to attend without investigating the source of his pain, but he would survive one lecture. He might even gain some insight into the nature of his affliction. 

Perceptor was no stranger to spark injury—though he tried not to dwell on the details of that particular brush with death. Some memories were best left in the past. The evidence of that day was still etched into his casing, and though he’d healed surprisingly well—with no major complications to speak of—it was entirely possible that the old injury was acting up. He wouldn’t be the only mech contending with phantom pains in the aftermath of war. 

Whatever the case, it was evident that he would need to investigate promptly, lest it grow worse. 

He resolved to conduct the scan as soon as he returned. 

***

Brainstorm was easy enough to locate—a flash of bright turquoise in a muddled sea of reds, blues, and monochromatics. 

He was also waving excitedly in Perceptor’s direction. 

“Hey! Over here, Perce!” 

“Desperate much?” some bot muttered as Perceptor pushed through the crowd and toward the chairs. He levelled an unimpressed stare in their direction as he passed, and the bot promptly found themselves preoccupied with a spot on the floor. 

The place Brainstorm had chosen was near the front of the crowd, and Perceptor had to maneuver around a number of disgruntled mecha to reach it. He navigated the sea of crewmembers with customary apologies, and was eventually easing himself into the chair beside Brainstorm. 

“Can you believe he didn’t invite us to guest-lecture?” he complained, before Perceptor had even finished sitting down. 

“We’re not medical doctors,” Perceptor pointed out. “It’s hardly our area of expertise.” 

“Yeah, well maybe _I’ve_ got something to say about the interdimensional consequences of sparkache,” he grumbled. 

Perceptor looked to him, caught off-guard by the casual nature of the remark. It was true that the melancholy which had tinted his interactions with Brainstorm directly following his time-hopping misadventure was long gone, but he hadn’t expected him to be so adjusted at this stage as to be cracking jokes.

He was saved from having to reply by Ratchet clearing his throat, in a futile bid to gain the attention of the mecha in the room. When the cacophony failed to die down, he did it again, louder, and a touch more pointedly. 

This time, the lack of response warranted more drastic measures. Ratchet’s siren was an audial-splitting shock for those unprepared for it. Even Perceptor, who’d anticipated the move, was left wincing. 

This time, the chatter died to a hush, though a few whispers continued to permeate the silence.

“_Hey_,” Ratchet barked. “I know it’s not in your collective coding, but if we could pipe down for a minute that’d be _great_. Really appreciate it.” 

He then turned and gestured at the screen behind him, which displayed the words “Your Spark and You: A Guide to Cybertronian Vitology”. First Aid stood helpfully beside the screen with a pointer at the ready.

“Right. Let’s get started.”

Brainstorm leaned in, hovering close to Perceptor’s audial. 

“Should have called it How to Not Die Part 1A,” he whispered loudly. Loud enough for Ratchet to hear, and send an unimpressed stare their way. Perceptor grimaced apologetically. 

“There’s Parts 1A-Z, and then we move onto _Part 2_-” continued Brainstorm, and Perceptor elbowed him. It was far too early in the day to attract Ratchet’s ire. 

Luckily, the medic was no longer paying them any attention, choosing instead to address the room. 

“I’m well aware that no one wants to be here,” he said. “So I’m going to keep this short and concise for _all_ of our sakes. That said, no one leaves this room until I say so. Clear?” 

Assorted grumbling from the room at large. 

“_Heyy_, I already did my time Doctor Prison Guard,” heckled Whirl, from somewhere in the crowd. 

Ratchet was unsympathetic. “Zip it,” he said. “We wouldn’t be here period if any of you knew how to take care of yourselves. Pit knows how you survived a war like this. Frankly, I think you’re lucky you had a bunch of overclocked medics to play sitter.” 

Perceptor thought it likely that Ratchet knew—but wasn’t voicing—the other explanation; in war there simply hadn’t been the time or resources to deal with ailling mecha. He thought about the scores who had languished undiagnosed on the battlefield until a blaster had beaten their malady in the race to extinguish them. 

“So starting today, you’re going to get a crash-course in anatomy and physiology,” Ratchet informed them. “You’re going to walk away with at least a _basic_ understanding of how your frames work, and the ability to recognize when it’s time to get some fragging help. I don’t think that‘s too much to ask. ``

He crossed his arms and looked out at the crowd, daring anyone to challenge him. 

“Someone should let him know that I’ve already had the _talk_,” intoned Brainstorm, a little too loudly. A nearby bot snickered. 

“_Shhh_,” Perceptor hissed, motioning for him to be quiet. Ratchet wouldn’t hesitate to call them out if they continued to disrupt his presentation. 

“This is part one of a twelve-part lecture series,” Ratchet continued. 

More complaints from the room.

“Do you want me to make it eighteen parts?” he threatened. 

It was predictably effective; the rising crescendo of noise softened again to a low murmur. 

“Yeah, that’s what I _thought_.” 

“See? What’d I say,” Brainstorm muttered. “He has his way, we’ll be here longer than it took them to thaw me out at Solar Storm.”

Perceptor gave up his futile crusade to stem Brainstorm’s commentary. 

The screen behind Ratchet changed to display a diagram of Cybertronian anatomy—the kind you might find in a medical textbook. He pointed emphatically at it, and First Aid seemed unsure as to whether or not he should utilize the pointer he held in servo. After a few moments of uncertain shuffling, he opted to wait. 

“As you probably already know,” Ratchet began, “the spark is considered to be one-third of Rossum’s Trinity—the other two being the brain module, and the t-cog. And don’t worry, we _will_ be covering them all. _Thoroughly_.” 

“Yippee,” breathed Brainstorm. 

“Each of these parts is, of course, vital to your functioning. More importantly, they’re _interlinked_. Extensive damage to one is enough to put the others—and yourself—at risk for something else, which is why it’s important to take. Care. of. Them.” Ratchet punctuated each of the last words with an accusatory finger. 

Perceptor hoped that no one had noticed his slight wince when the finger had turned on their section of the room. 

“Today, we’re going to focus on the spark—” The diagram switched to a close-up view of the organ in question, and someone whistled. “—which is, in plain and simple terms, the thing that keeps you going. It powers your frame and processor. If it extinguishes, that’s it.”

Ratchet’s presentation methods were as brusque as his bedside manner, it seemed. 

“Now, as far as we know there are eight spark types in existence, the most common being ferrum-positive,” Ratchet informed them. “Thanks to First Aid’s research—” and here First Aid waved “—we know that mecha of a similar spark type can give each other a boost in the event of spark-failure. There’s also research which suggests that some spark-types are more prone to certain anomalies or conditions. That means it’s good to know your own spark-type, in the event of a medical emergency where your file isn’t on hand.”

Perceptor was isomeric-positive, himself. It was a fairly rare spark type. 

“If you _don’t_ know yours, you can ask one of us,” First Aid piped up.

Ratchet nodded briefly in acknowledgement. 

“I’m not going to talk about point-one percenters today,” he continued. “That’s another lecture on its own. I do, however, feel it’s relevant to clear up any misconceptions you may have about spark-type. Namely, that method of construction has any servo in determining it.”

Uncomfortable shifting from some of the room. 

“It’s slag,” Ratchet said flatly. “Has no bearing on the type of spark you end up with, or how it functions. In short, there’s zero difference between you and the other 191 mecha in this room.” 

Perceptor thought it unfortunate that such a thing needed saying, but the functionist propaganda disseminated by the senate ran deep, and such damage was slow to heal. 

As Ratchet entered full-on lecture mode, Perceptor found himself more invested than he might have been under ordinary circumstances. He had taught himself enough medicine to be an effective first responder, should the need arise in the field, but otherwise seldom took an interest. He was keen, however, to identify the cause of his mysterious ailment, and made sure to take extensive notes. 

Brainstorm continued to provide colourful commentary in his audial as the lecture progressed. He had scooted their chairs together in order to facilitate better communication, and as a result they were pressed thigh to thigh, knee to knee, with Brainstorm’s wing framing his back. Each time he leaned over, the warm draft of his ex-vents unfurled over Perceptor’s frame, and it was altogether a profoundly distracting affair.

He was also very aware of the renewed throb under his chassis, a powerful knocking that left him short of breath. There was a knot in his chest that wound tighter with each breath. 

The obvious answer was that the lecture was heightening any underlying anxiety that he was experiencing regarding his situation. After all, this seminar was too convenient, building easily upon his pre-existing concerns.

There were a few mecha paying attention. Cyclonus—stoic as ever—appeared to be doing his best to emulate a statue as he listened. He only broke form once, to lean forward and stop Whirl from spinning his own rotors, as he had been for the better part of the lecture. There was a forced gentleness to the way he laid his servo over the blade, and Whirl acquiesced with a sulk. Rung appeared to be… knitting, but he looked up intermittently to smile encouragingly. To his left, Fortress Maximus was holding his yarn ball with practiced care. 

Brainstorm too, had noticed the disordered nature of the room. 

“Y’know, If Ratchet really wanted to make his job easier he’d just slap some infographics on the back of all the booze bottles at Swerve’s,” he said. “Though I guess spreading health tips via high-grade kind of undermines the 'health' aspect...."

Perceptor snorted despite himself. 

Brainstorm’s mask was still up, but Perceptor could see his smile in the twinkling crescents of his optics. The knocking beneath his chest turned into a hammering, and the escalation gave him pause—as something close to an epiphany dangled just out of reach.

Brainstorm always seemed to be present for the worst of his aches. Indeed, looking back it seemed that each time his symptoms had worsened suddenly, it had been in the vicinity of the other mech. Correlation was not causation, however, and Perceptor hesitated to think how Brainstorm’s mere existence might have this level of influence on his person.

It would be erroneous to say that Brainstorm had never acted as a stressor in Perceptor’s life. Vigilance was required in the face of his more irresponsible—often dangerous—projects, and at times that tested the bounds of Perceptor’s patience. But enough to cause a physical reaction? 

Brainstorm could certainly be a servoful, but Perceptor did not view him as a nuisance, nor an antagonistic force. 

He _liked_ Brainstorm, almost an inordinate amount.

Perceptor had been enjoying himself more in the laboratory the past stellar cycle than he had across the entirety of the war, and most of that was due to their growing camaraderie. The theory that Brainstorm’s presence was having an adverse effect on his health was therefore not something he wanted to entertain. His seeming role as a catalyst was likely yet another coincidence. 

Perceptor was beginning to despise coincidences. He didn’t believe in them on principle. And yet.

He resolved to make note of the possible connection, but wouldn’t pursue it any father for the time being. 

Lost in rumination, he nodded absently in response to something Brainstorm had said—something about his ongoing attempts to manufacture a gun which could harness the energy of a black hole from the inside. 

“Wait, _what_?”

***

After the lecture, Perceptor made a point to seek out Ratchet and thank him.

Most of the crowd had slunk off already, though a few stragglers remained. Rodimus had changed positions in recharge, and had slumped inadvertently against the mech next to him. Megatron looked as though he’d taken a sip of curdled energon, and was currently trying to extradite himself from the situation, to no avail. Perceptor watched Highbrow pass the Rubik’s cube to Riptide, who proceeded to stare at it for a few seconds before tapping it against the table—as though all it needed was a good, hard knock to sort itself out. Across the room, Smokescreen had gotten involved in the card game, which meant it wouldn’t be long before Magnus arrived to cite them all for gambling. 

“I found your lecture very informative, Ratchet. Thank you for taking the time to prepare it,” he offered, upon reaching him. The discussion on common ailments of the spark—of varying degrees of severity—had reinforced the resolve to conduct a scan on himself as soon as possible. 

Ratchet rolled his optics. 

“Yeah, well. I’ll be happy if a third of it stuck. Something’s gotta keep this crew from falling apart while I’m not looking,” he grumbled. 

“Indeed.” 

New movement to the left of him, and Perceptor glanced over to be greeted by the ominous sight of Rodimus stirring from his slumber. 

“Oh boy,” muttered Ratchet, of a similar mind. “Here we go.” 

The two of them braced themselves for the inevitable.

Sure enough, upon waking—and realizing exactly _whose_ shoulder he’d been using for support—Rodimus sat up as though he had been burned. The yelling began a few seconds later.

Ratchet clapped him on the shoulder; he was a tactile mech, and years of acquaintance had taught Perceptor to brace himself for such. 

“Well, at least I know there are a few sensible mecha on this circus of a ship,” he said candidly. 

It took a few seconds for Perceptor to school his expression, but Ratchet didn’t notice. Eager to remove himself from the chaos, he’d already headed in the direction of the game. 

Perceptor knew that his rationale was sound; there was no reason to bother Ratchet until he had confirmed that there was a legitimate cause for concern. He wouldn’t add unnecessarily to the medic’s long list of responsibilities. 

Still, the guilt simmered in his fuel tank.

***

Perceptor elected to stop by his quarters on the way back to the laboratory. As he stood there—contemplating his drained countenance in the reflection of the mirror-screen—he found himself seized by the powerful urge to cough.

He failed to suppress the urge, and blue light flickered in his HUD—reflecting off the arm he’d thrown up out of habitual politeness. As his vents choked and sputtered, he jerked his head up and met the unnaturally bright glare of his optics, which flared with every wheeze. Perceptor promptly offlined them, fighting to regain control of his ventilation system. 

When the fit had passed, Perceptor was left trembling. It had only lasted a minute, but he felt as though his exhaustion had increased tenfold. Relying on the counter in front of him for support, he surveyed his reflection again—with no small amount of apprehension. Were his optics brighter than usual?

The kernel of dread which had been planted earlier took root and sprouted. 

Perceptor didn’t need a scan to diagnose _this_; the answer stared back at him with stark certainty. 

Still, he would proceed as planned. Collecting as much information as possible about the disease’s progression would be vital in determining his next steps. 

And now, he knew with utmost certainty that there was no time to delay.

***

Perceptor wasted no time throwing himself into research. Fueled by the gravity of the situation, he was back to the laboratory in record time.

He began by running searches in every academic database at his disposal. The number was less than he would have liked; sources that he’d been reliant on during his academy days had dwindled as the war stretched on—the unwitting casualties of a growing apathy. Disuse had led to lack of maintenance, and eventual abandonment, but the physical destruction of those servers located on Cybertron had likely played a large role as well.

Perceptor had hopes that some of the databases might be revived some day, but he was under no illusion that they would be able to recover the same wealth of information that the planet had hosted in its prime. Much of it would need to be rebuilt from the ground up.

Unfortunately, his access to alien databases was also rather limited. Cybertronians were not viewed generously by the majority of races in this sector, and their exclusion from the Galactic Council did them no favours. He ran a quick check nonetheless, and was unsurprised to find that there were none outside their own species interested in documenting such an uncommon condition.

Unable to bypass the firewalls which guarded the Decepticon information hub, he was left with the Autobot Datanet—a project that he had frequently contributed to, and was thus very familiar with. But while Autobot-aligned scientists and medical professionals had done their best to preserve and generate what information they could, there was an undeniable military bias to the research. Files dealing with the treatment of battlefield injuries and wartime afflictions far outnumbered the rest. 

Perceptor cleared his throat, unable to shake loose the debris that clung to his intake. 

After a few, frustrating cycles—the majority of which he spent wrestling with counterintuitive search engines—he had produced a modest number of useful documents. His scouring had at the very least, provided him with statistics and data which he could further build upon. 

Perceptor considered his findings. Hanahaki was a rare illness, affecting only 1 in 250,000 mecha. It was not well-studied—despite its notoriety—and appeared to have been the niche interest of but a few medical researchers from the Golden Age onwards. He’d ascertained that those with the isomeric-positive spark type were affected more frequently than others, comprising 84.5% of known cases. That offered some explanation as to his predisposition towards the disease, though not why he had contracted it in particular. 

He knew that the _popular_ conception of the disease leaned heavily on romantic tragedy—featuring lovelorn bots for whom there was no hope of reciprocation, and subsequently, survival. But that was ridiculous. He couldn’t imagine how that would be relevant.

But then he recalled the way that his frame had been reacting to Brainstorm’s presence, for the better part of a month. It coincided almost precisely with the onset of his symptoms. Was it possible that he had been ignoring something so monumental? That he’d been harbouring deeper feelings for his colleague than even he’d realized, and simply been unwilling to address it? 

Perceptor shook his head, turning back to the familiarity of data. There would be plenty of time to ruminate on the cause, once he had ascertained what he was dealing with. 

Hanahaki was insidious by design. At its most basic level, it stemmed from the corruption of emotional subroutines, and an abnormal immune response mounted by one’s frame. The extended suppression of emotions with a negative bias had caused his processor to mark the scripts as unresolvable. As they continued to build up, they created critical conflicts in his emotional subcentre which had, in turn, been putting undue stress on his processor. 

While not healthy per se, this process was not particularly dangerous on its own. Under ordinary circumstances, the failure to address the twisted code might have left him feeling taxed or overextended. He may have experienced a decrease in efficiency as as his processor compensated for the superfluous background operations. 

The real trouble originated in the fact that his frame had chosen to react to those stressors in the extreme, reading the emotional strain as a physical ailment which needed repair. It had concluded that his emotional upset was indication of an internal injury, and was attempting to heal damage which did not exist. Because frames often had difficulty differentiating between organs when it came to such internal injury, it had settled on the area most obviously at risk—his sparkchamber. 

However, the attempt to heal a nonexistent injury was causing a buildup of cicatrix within the chamber, and causing a plethora of other problems. The flares of light he had witnessed—both behind his optics and down his intake—were the result of this overactive healing process, which was also generating an excess of heat. The inconsistent thermoregulation within the chamber was in turn, liable to cause reactions between his innermost energon, cooling fluids, and the surplus of raw and malleable sentio metallico generated by the scarring process. Fueled by his spark, the result was unchecked crystallization, which would continue until the condition was resolved, or prove fatal without intervention.

Perceptor rubbed absently at the glass covering his chamber; the ache had been pronounced since the lecture, and made more so by his grim reading.

Hoping to distract himself, he poured through a couple of obscure, pre-war medical journals. After a time, he managed to find a paper detailing common progressions of the disease in the majority of sufferers. Aches and pains, it seemed, were to be the least of his concerns. 

The coughing fit that he’d experienced earlier was indeed an indication that the disease had begun to progress, and that crystals were likely present in his chamber already. These growths were prone to breaking off intermittently—when they grew too large, or became dislodged by activity—and when they did so they acted as shrapnel, exiting the frame via various, unpleasant routes. The respiratory and fuel systems appeared to be the most common migratory paths, but the crystals were guaranteed to find their way into his fuel lines eventually. 

Perceptor glanced down at the report still open on his desk, and frowned. The subjects’ outcomes had been overwhelmingly poor. The medics had employed several different strategies to stem the spread of the crystals, but they had been at best, mitigating measures. Any ‘cure’ for the affliction beyond seemed to lie in the realm of the theoretical. 

For instance, surgical removal of the growths, in combination with regular coolant siphoning, had extended the life of one subject another 52 years, but the procedures had been as frequent as they were invasive. Neither had they addressed the source of the issue. Perceptor was not interested in temporary measures. 

Because Hanahaki was the physical manifestation of an emotional problem, therapy had been approached as an alternate treatment. However, despite extensive sessions, most subjects had failed to make significant progress before succumbing. It seemed that understanding the _source_ of one’s internal conflict was simple enough, but training one’s processor to build alternate emotional pathways was less so. It required an inordinate amount of discipline and introspection, and even Perceptor—a notorious pragmatist—knew that he’d have difficulty doing so. 

The psychiatrists’ notes drew similar conclusions—that altering one’s emotional response on such an unconscious level required either time that the sufferer did not have, or a significant event which eliminated the source of the emotion altogether. They did not seem to believe that the mecha were capable of achieving true resolution, citing their efforts as too superficial to have any real effect. 

One detail which caught his interest was the note by a mech by the name of Autoclave, who had observed that of the 1,974 cases, only 46% were the result of an unreciprocated affection, which disputed the popular perception. In the other mecha, the disease had been triggered by other forms of emotional distress. The risk factors for the disease then, were both spark type, and uninterrupted, long-term stress on one’s emotional subroutines, which ultimately caused the frame to respond as though under attack. 

Perceptor wondered how it was possible that there had been no recorded cases of Hanahaki amongst the Autobots in the millions of years since these reports. Very few mecha, if any, had escaped the war unscathed; one only had to look around the Lost Light to note that PTSD was prolific amongst survivors. Rare as his spark-type was, if emotional turmoil was the trigger, than he would have expected a least a few such cases. 

Perhaps, Perceptor mused regretfully, it was simply that none of those predisposed to the disease had survived long enough for it to manifest itself. Furthermore, there was bound to be a CNA link which had remained so far undiscovered. It was a shame that such analysis was outside the realm of his capabilities, but Cybertronian code was complex, and not one of his specialities. 

Perceptor turned his attention to the details of his own situation. He had assumed that the disease was the result of his suppressing his... _admiration_ for Brainstorm, but that was certainly not the only thing clawing at his spark. If Hanahaki was not always triggered by unrequited feelings—and mecha merely favoured the romantic stereotype—then it was possible that something else was the cause. Assuming that he was predisposed, each tumultuous period in his life had been building to this moment—when the proverbial switch in his CNA finally flipped. 

The question then: was he in _love_ with Brainstorm? 

Perceptor struggled to find a frame of reference. It was difficult, having no prior experience to draw from. He wasn’t so proud as to say he’d never loved before—he’d cared deeply for many mecha across his lifetime, and Drift's position as his amica was a shining example of such. And he’d had dalliances, here and there. But romantic feelings… those were outside of his usual purview. 

He’d always been proficient at compartmentalizing. He was no stranger to the trauma of losing friends to the violence of war, but understood that such losses were inevitable. His own near-death experience had been more difficult to rationalize, but in the end he had managed to come to terms with his vulnerability, and taken measures to correct it. In each of these cases, he’d been able to rely on logic to resolve his emotional conflict. 

Brainstorm, on the other servo, defied logic. He muddled a process which had served Perceptor well up until now. Their current relationship was difficult enough to analyze without adding love—or even simple infatuation—to the mix. 

Back to the question then. Perceptor had certainly grown to _admire_ his lab partner, that was easy enough to admit. His initial impression of Brainstorm had been entirely off the mark, and upon realizing such, he’d made an effort to rectify his mistake. His estimation of the other scientist had only continued to grow since. The zeal with which Brainstorm approached everything was commendable—endearing even. 

He could also say with certainty that he _appreciated_ Brainstorm’s presence. Accustomed to silently productive partners, Brainstorm had been a significant adjustment. Now, it was difficult to conceive of a workspace devoid of his animated chatter. Perceptor could only imagine how lifeless the laboratory would feel now, should that energy vanish. 

Distracting as he was, Brainstorm had proven unexpectedly adept at making him smile. His humour was nonsensical—wielding his wit like one of his equally unorthodox weapons—but far from turning Perceptor off, he’d found it unexpectedly stimulating. 

So yes, he both admired and appreciated the changes Brainstorm had enacted, and continued to enact on his life. 

But... love? Perceptor had always thought that emotion rather out of his depth. 

He cleared his throat again, invisible wires scratching incessantly at his intake. 

It was hard to ignore the tightness that coiled in him lately whenever he and Brainstorm met—the faint disappointment when it was time to retire for the night. Nor could he dismiss the warmth which bloomed at inopportune times, such as when Brainstorm interrupted his work to bring him a cube of energon. More than once, he’d caught himself glancing up from a project only to be sidetracked by the distinct slant of his partner’s wings, or the deft motion of his servos. Brainstorm’s very presence seemed to ignite something odd in him—something undefinable and fluttering. 

The answer to his question—much as it was difficult to admit—appeared to be a resounding _yes_. 

Primus.

Unfortunately, that did nothing for him in terms of a solution. And in this case, the most obvious answer was also the most unfeasible one. Reciprocation would likely straighten out his tangled subroutines, but he’d had no indication that Brainstorm returned his sentiments. Perceptor’s cool exterior didn’t seem to chafe him—as it did so many others—but _tolerance_ was no basis for a romantic relationship. 

And Perceptor had given Brainstorm more reason than not to avoid him. He had been dismissive and callous for most of their association; he had been so irked by what he’d perceived as an utter lack of diligence or maturity that he’d chosen to overlook Brainstorm’s better qualities for millennia. That he knew better now didn’t change the past, and Perceptor was frequently surprised by Brainstorm’s willingness to be amiable colleagues, let alone friends. 

There was also the spectre of Quark to contend with. Even if he hadn’t utterly destroyed his chances with his pettiness, Perceptor knew well that Brainstorm was still devoted to the memory of his old lab partner. He’d had little enough time to process his grief, and Perceptor’s sudden interest was made all the more selfish for it.

The only thing more selfish would be foisting those feelings upon Brainstorm. 

This disease was a particularly cruel twist of fate, for had the situation been any different—had this revelation occurred under any other circumstances—Perceptor might have considered broaching the subject. As things stood, it would only put undue pressure on Brainstorm to reciprocate. Or even to pretend to, in order to spare him his current fate. 

Perceptor wouldn’t burden their tenuous friendship with an unwelcome advance, and certainly not one which his life balanced on.

He abruptly ceased the drumming of his fingers, interrupting the pattern he’d been tapping out against the table. He hadn’t even realized that he’d begun; it was a nervous habit that he’d thought long trained away.

Having weighed his options, the path ahead seemed clear. This was a rare opportunity for study—one that he would be a fool to waste. Perceptor was confident in his abilities to document the progression of the disease, and in the process, attempt to formulate some kind of countermeasure or cure. Should he be successful, the ensuing publication would be a resource for all. Bias was inevitable, he knew, in using himself as subject, but he considered the potential contribution to science worth the risk.

And he _did_ want to discuss his revelation with Brainstorm, Perceptor realized—as intimidating as the prospect was. That, in and of itself, was an incentive to solve this—so that they might have a conversation under less dire circumstances. In the meantime, it would give him time to prepare his piece. He wasn’t one to approach a quandary without possessing all of the facts, and with a suitable plan formulated.

Perceptor wasn’t a fool; he understood the magnitude of the situation, and that his functioning was at stake. However, he was also confident in his abilities to manage the disease’s progression. Should things grow truly out of servo, he would approach Ratchet for palliative measures. He wouldn’t allow this to go so far as to risk offlining. 

And in the rare event that he failed to contain the situation, there were few who would truly grieve.

Perceptor turned his attention back to information gathering. Perhaps taking a more active role would amass better results. Using a pseudonym, he posted to a few select academic forums—short and succinct.

[Conducting research on the progression of Hanahaki disease in Cybertronians. Seeking any and all information on the subject. Assistance appreciated.]

He also sent messages to a few colleagues for whom he still had contact information. Some he hadn’t spoken to in tens of millennia; he was unsure if they were even functioning. Still, he was determined to exhaust all possible avenues. 

Following that, only one task remained. It was a task Perceptor had been dreading on some level, and thus, he’d been putting it off all afternoon. He glanced at the laboratory door—locked, and no sign of Brainstorm. He’d taken a note from his colleague and tampered with the cameras beforehand, to ensure that there would be no unwitting voyeurs. 

There was therefore no longer any reason to procrastinate. 

The scan he’d conducted earlier had confirmed his condition; the bright spots which indicated crystal growth scattered throughout his spark chamber like stars across a swathe of black sky. But there were other things that needed documenting—measurements and pictures first amongst them. He would need to open his armor to do so, and to properly survey the damage.

That he had an intense dislike of exposing himself like this was of little consequence. He had committed to this course. It was necessary.

And so, venting deeply, he did so.

The first thing that Perceptor noticed was that the growths were not as extensive as the scan had led him to believe. He could count at least a dozen points of origin, where the crystals sprouted from misshapen metal, but they hadn’t spread very far yet—hugging the walls and rim of his chamber. They glittered, sharp and dangerous.

This gave him time, as well as hope. The disease had progressed, yes, but it was early stages yet. 

Chamber still open—and cognizant that if someone were to walk in he would be caught in quite a compromising position—Perceptor bent over the table, and began his work.

***

If Perceptor had hoped to stumble across some new information—attain some sense of clarity—in the next few days, he was to be sorely mistaken.

His inbox sat woefully empty, barren as the Sea of Rust. He’d cross-referenced everything at his disposal multiple times, to little avail, and it seemed that any breakthroughs—if there were any to be made—would have come from his own research.

Perceptor pinched the bridge of his nose. His sigh slid against the cold steel of the laboratory, and the sterile walls offered no reassurance or comfort. 

The ache in his spark was concentrated today—an ardent protest from the lower left portion of his chamber. It was undoubtedly a consequence of the samples he’d taken earlier. Perceptor had been careful removing the crystals—cutting with swift precision, and cauterizing the points where they grew from warped metal—but the growths had left his chamber raw, and he hadn’t been prepared for the level of discomfort the harvest would bring. 

He would grow accustomed to it, however. He knew that the current samples wouldn’t last long. Most of them had been used up in his preliminary analysis, which had only concluded the obvious—the twisted, crystalline scars were indeed composed of a combination of energon and sentio metallico—the product of a well-meaning, but overzealous self-repair. 

Stopping the formation of new crystals would require stopping the corruption at its source. In the meantime, however, he might experiment with strategies for slowing their growth. Several chemical solutions were already in the works. 

Perceptor cleared his throat, though it did nothing to alleviate the persistent prickling which had been plaguing him today, and every day since the coughing had begun. 

He stood up. Perhaps it was time for a break. He disliked the idea of wasting time, but he also recognized his limits. As things stood, it was unlikely that he would make any more progress today. 

Though… perhaps… 

Perceptor bit his lip consideringly, and looked to the door. Perhaps he hadn’t exhausted all of his resources.

***

“Weird request, coming from you,” Rewind commented, as he kicked back in the chair he was occupying. Behind him, an assortment of images and paused videos were pulled up on his monitors; he’d clearly been in the midst of the editing process when Perceptor had interrupted to ask his favour.

Perceptor recognized several scenes from the Lost Light among the stills. He could only hope that if and when the filmmaker snuck his latest compilation into one of the ship’s movie nights, this one wouldn’t feature him. He wasn’t keen to star in “Top 100 roasts from Swerve’s Pt. 2’” regardless of how deserving Highbrow had been at the time. 

“It pertains to a project that I’ve recently undertaken,” Perceptor said smoothly. “It has come to my attention that there is a dearth of information pertaining to spark-related diseases, especially in light of the war and the halting of most non-military forms of research. I’m looking to establish a database which will enable future researchers to reopen those avenues of study.”

“Isn’t that more Ratchet’s thing?” 

Rewind seemed genuinely curious, so Perceptor tried not to let the stream of questions rankle him. He quirked an eyebrow instead.

“I can assure you that my interests are quite varied,” he deadpanned. “Contrary to popular belief, I do not only concern myself with incomprehensible streams of numbers, and keeping this ship from falling into wormholes of our own making”. 

If Rewind had possessed a mouth, Perceptor was quite sure that he’d be smiling bemusedly. 

“I was partially inspired by Ratchet’s lecture the other day,” he admitted; hoping that the kernel of truth might grant him some additional credibility. 

Rewind looked at him for a few moments, long enough that Perceptor wondered if he was perhaps more transparent than he knew. Finally, he nodded. 

“I’ve got a few things you might be interested in; give me a few cycles and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Victory sparked bright in him—the promise of new information enough to burn away the morning’s disappointment. 

“I appreciate your assistance,” Perceptor said, with genuine sincerity. 

Rewind waved a servo at him. “Hey, it’s what I’m here for. Need anything else?” 

Perceptor could tell that Rewind was keen to get back to the project he’d interrupted, and he wasn’t so socially oblivious as to continue taking up his time. 

“No, that was all,” he affirmed. “Thank you.” 

He was glad that he’d managed to catch the archivist alone. While he and Chromedome functioned perfectly well apart, it was rare to find one without the other. Rewind was unlikely to keep silent about his inquiries if Chromedome asked, but the possibility that he might not have occasion to share instilled a greater sense of security in him. And where it came to other mecha, he trusted Rewind to be discreet, as usual.

“Sweet. Don’t let me keep you then. And hey, when you’re done could you copy me on the results?”

“...Of course.”

Presumably, he would be free of his affliction by then, and there would be harm in sharing his work.

Perceptor turned to leave, but he’d only taken a step when he paused—optics caught by the holo sitting on Rewind’s desk. The picture featured him and Chromedome, and it’d clearly been taken at their conjunx ceremony. The two of them practically glowed with happiness, their helms resting against one another’s. 

He turned away—feeling as though he was interrupting an intimate moment merely by looking—but a thought popped into his processor unheeded. 

“How did you know?” 

Almost immediately, he balked. That had been exceedingly out of character—as impulsive as it was vague.

“Hm?” Rewind was flicking through the frames of a video titled ‘Top 10 Epic Fails This Week’. Having seen the last two videos in the series, Perceptor had gotten the impression that Whirl was intentionally competing. 

Grateful for the distraction, he took the opportunity to escape. 

“Nothing,” he said, with a shake of his head, backing towards the door once more. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

Rewind looked up, obviously intrigued by his reticence. The red light of his camera put Perceptor on edge. 

“No, really. How’d I know what?” 

“It was of no import,” Perceptor insisted, beating a hasty retreat. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” 

He was glad when the door shut behind him, putting a buffer between him and Rewind’s scrutiny.

Perceptor debated returning to his habsuite, but success had put a new spring in his step. Halfway to his room, he changed directions—heading for Swerve’s instead. 

It would do well for the crew to see him. It wasn’t unusual for him to sequester himself in the lab when involved with a new project, but it’d been some time since he’d engaged in a social setting, and there were certain mecha who would seek him out should he hide away for too long. 

A stellar-cycle ago, Drift would have been chief among them, he thought regretfully. Perceptor had taken his steady and familiar presence on the Lost Light for granted, and he missed his amica now more than ever. Drift had, in a way, been the catalyst for his current self. They’d remade themselves together on the fringes of the Wreckers, and forged a mutual trust was unlikely to ever fade. 

Drift was gone now, but that didn’t mean that Perceptor was wholly shielded from well-meaning interventions. Rung and Ratchet were also prone to checking on him, and it wouldn't do to arouse their suspicions. So, he would go have a drink, and if he was lucky, engage in a stimulating conversation or two. 

Perhaps Brainstorm would be there.

***

Arriving at Swerves, Perceptor almost immediately regretted his decision.

A quick survey of the room revealed that half the ship had been of a similar mind; with nothing better to do, they’d flocked to the bar. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, but neither was he thrilled by the prospect of navigating the crowd.

Perceptor could tell that the night was well and truly underway. A sea of loose and buzzing EM fields signalled the crews’ flagging inhibitions. Bracing himself against the sensation, he pushed his way to the bar, and after sparing the board a quick glance, ordered the least offensive looking thing on Swerve’s specials menu. 

He felt on the verge of overheating already. The throng of mecha made the space seem much smaller than it actually was, and the audible hum of at least a dozen cooling fans permeated the air. He cast sharp optics towards the least crowded section of the bar, surveying his options. 

Thankfully, he didn’t need to stake out the room for long; within a minute, a couple of laughing mecha vacated one of the corner tables, and drink in hand, he managed to slip into the abandoned seat.

Perceptor sipped absently at his drink, and the raw feeling in his intake was replaced by the sharp burn of engex. The bar was stocked with familiar faces, but now, sitting here, he didn’t feel particularly inclined to initiate a conversation. Perhaps it would be enough that he was here.

He pulled out a datapad and opened the transcripted conference proceedings from this year’s astrophysicists’ meeting on Frellus IV, intending to resume where he’d left off. As he recalled, he’d been immersed in the universal scaling behaviour of resonant absorption, and its practical applications.

The plan was short-lived, however, because hardly had he begun to read before a mech was dropping into the booth beside him. There was room—just barely—and Perceptor looked up in mild irritation. He opened his mouth to ask them to find another place to sit, only to close it abruptly when he realized who it was. 

“What do you think so far?” asked Brainstorm. “I flipped through it the other day, but I only got six pages in before I wanted to ride the ship’s airlock like a super space slip n’ slide. People say _I’m_ bad, but those people have clearly never had to witness Astroscope toggle his own joystick for three hours.”

Perceptor was having a difficult time coming up with a response. At the forefront of his processor was the realization that he and Brainstorm hadn’t had an extended interaction since his revelation the other cycle, and he was finding himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. He was also trying not to think too hard about the implications of the last sentence. Surely it had been metaphorical. 

He took another sip of his drink, and struggled to pull something out of the void that had opened up where his processor ordinarily resided. 

“It is a bit self-aggrandizing,” he admitted. “But the project itself has merit. The potential applications for interstellar travel alone make it a worthwhile endeavour.” 

Brainstorm snorted. 

“Findings are useless if you can’t keep peoples’ attention,” he complained. “He acts like we’re desperate for it, but his delivery’s drier than Magnus’ sense of humour. It’s a total snoozefest. Personally, I’d rather watch Whirl get smashed and try to fist-fight his reflection.”

“Magnus has a sense of humour?” Perceptor asked drolly. He snuck a glance across the bar to make sure that that the aforementioned scenario wasn’t actually occurring. Thankfully, it was not.

Brainstorm’s response was typical, however. If it wasn’t exciting, he wasn’t interested. 

“What would you suggest?” he asked, in regards to the presentation. “That he include a minimum of two chemical combustions, strategically spaced to keep the audience awake?” 

Perceptor’s exasperation was three-quarters habit at this point.

“See? _Now_ you’re thinking with portals.” 

Perceptor furrowed his brow, unfamiliar with the turn of phrase. Before he could ask, Brainstorm was elbowing him good-naturedly.

“Hey, how about this? We’ll stream the next one and make a game of it. Every time he namedrops, or starts talking about ‘his good friend, The Prime’ we take a shot. Then _maybe_ it'll be a talk worth listening to.” 

The suggestion was petty in the way that only academia could be, but as Perceptor recalled some of the arduous presentations he’d had to sit through last year, he had to admit that it held some appeal. Of course, half of that appeal lay in the fact that Brainstorm wanted to engage in the activity together

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” he said. It wasn’t a commitment, but it wasn’t a no either. 

Brainstorm’s mask was off, which was unusual, even for the venue. He had a tendency to refuel from his wrist port. Consequently, when he smiled, Perceptor found himself caught thoroughly off-guard. Not for the first time, he noticed that Brainstorm had a very handsome face. 

This was ridiculous. He wasn’t some newly-forged academy bot, tripping over their enthusiasm in the presence of a decorated scholar. He was an accomplished scientist in his own right, and fully in command of this… crush. He tried to take another sip of his drink, and realized that it was woefully empty. 

Brainstorm pushed his own drink closer. 

“You want this? I snagged one because Swerve promised it would quote-unquote ‘blow my thrusters clean off’, but between you and me, it tastes like I licked the inside of an exhaust port.” 

“How generous of you to offer it to me,” Perceptor said dryly. 

“Hey, it’s free, isn’t it?” 

Perceptor stared down at the viscous concoction. After a brief moment of contemplation he deemed it worth the risk. 

The first small sip dragged a grimace from him. Brainstorm had been correct in his assessment. Still, it was better than nothing at all. 

Struck by a sudden wave of nausea, he glanced instinctively at the drink. He didn’t have any fuel sensitivities as far as he was aware, but perhaps something in it had spoiled? 

Upon inspection, Perceptor noticed that there was a slight sheen to the liquid—an oily shimmer that hadn’t been there before, and which had nothing to do with the glittery additives that Swerve was so fond of. His spark, having felt bloated and heated all day, chilled for the first time.

Not the drink then. 

Making a quick decision, he knocked back the rest of the engex. He was grateful for the dimly lit atmosphere, for he doubted that Brainstorm had noticed anything amiss. 

He then returned his attention to the conversation at hand, and pretended that the acidic concoction hadn’t just set his denta to throbbing. 

Brainstorm was staring, his finger caught in a half-raised position.

“Er, rough day?” he asked, instead of whatever he’d been planning to say.

“You might say that,” Perceptor answered, as though that weren’t the understatement of the millenium. “For one, Rodimus wants me to put a spoiler on the Lost Light.” 

That, unfortunately, was not a falsehood. He’d been ignoring the request since it’d first popped up in his communications suite late last night. 

“What—no flame decals?” 

“_Please_ don’t give him any ideas.”

Against his better judgement, Perceptor ordered another drink. He allowed Brainstorm to choose for him, after a small amount of wheedling, and a promise not to order another of whatever the last one had been. He was pleasantly surprised when it came; Brainstorm had judged his tastes with pinpoint precision. Mild, slightly dry, and much needed after his first two mixological adventures. 

Brainstorm had handed it off with a glib comment about ‘drinks that tasted like essays on scientific safety protocols’, but one glance at his own, vividly coloured beverage, and Perceptor had concluded that his own tastes tended towards the ‘sugared rocket fuel’ end of the spectrum. 

Feeling significantly more relaxed than he had at the start of this outing, Perceptor launched into a commentary on recent advancements in gravitational wave technology. Halfway through his analysis, and cognizant of Brainstorm’s unwavering attention, he realized that perhaps this wasn’t the kind of conversation the other mech had been seeking. 

Perceptor _knew_ science. It was... comfortable. Other topics—those outside of his usual purview—left him feeling rather inadequate. Suffice to say that he knew his strengths, and small talk was not one of them.

“I don’t know why you bother, really,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I’m not very good at… this.” Perceptor gestured in a broad, sweeping motion that attempted to include the both of them, as well as the table. The engex he’d ingested made the movement less than precise.

“This?” There was an unreadable quality to Brainstorm’s voice. Perceptor hoped he hadn’t offended him.

“Social pleasantries. Chatting. I’m not what one might consider an extrovert.”

“And I’m what, prom king? One of the cool kids?” Brainstorm asked, nonplussed. He looked around exaggeratedly, like he was checking their surroundings. “Still nerd central,” he affirmed with a cheeky wink. 

“Hm.”

“You don’t have to pull my wing to get me to talk science,” Brainstorm said, clearly exasperated. “I spent aeons trying to get you to notice me so that we could do _exactly that_. Major wish fulfillment right here.” 

“I noticed you,” Perceptor said immediately, because of course he had. Professional disagreements aside, Brainstorm had always been a shining beacon of scientific innovation—so bright as to be blinding. 

“Yeah, well, the exponential increase in lab fires _was_ probably pretty hard to ignore.”

Brainstorm was misinterpreting him, and Perceptor’s frustration spiked as a result. 

“I _noticed_ you,” he said again, emphatically. He was feeling a bit fuzzy at the edges—the engex had settled over his mind like a heavy blanket, muffling his senses—but he knew that it was extremely important that Brainstorm understand this. 

He wasn’t prepared for the long, contemplative look that he received this time around. It stripped him to the core, and left him feeling dangerously exposed.

“Yeah?” Brainstorm prodded gently. 

Perceptor coughed, and looked away, increasingly discomfited by the route this conversation had taken. The press of Brainstorm’s thigh against his made him ache, and he was finding himself with an increasing awareness regarding their proximity. He cast about wildly for a new topic. 

“How are your, erm, _seismic disrupter boots_ progressing?” 

He refused to say ‘moon shoes’ out loud.

Brainstorm sat back a little, the odd mood dissipating. 

“Oh _those_. I put those on the back burner for now; I’ve got a much more pressing project to attend to.” And here he paused for what Perceptor could only assume was dramatic effect. “Scraplet tamagotchis!” he crowed. 

Perceptor began coughing, having inhaled the next sip of his drink. 

“They’re brilliant because they harvest data, _and_ act as a friend for lonely mechs. It’s scientifically proven that people love tiny things,” Brainstorm said brightly. “I made them from the leftovers of Whirl’s swarm. Don’t tell him.”

After a few perilous moments, Perceptor managed to calm his respiratory system. He tucked the cloth he’d grabbed from the table—now spotted with energon—out of sight before it could be noticed, and wondered how to best tell Brainstorm that this was his worst idea to date. He hoped that his stare accurately conveyed the incredulity he was feeling. 

“They come in different colours,” Brainstorm offered, and the sheer ridiculousness of that statement was enough to shatter his composure. 

He began to laugh. And once he’d begun, he found it incredibly difficult to stop. 

“You are,” he gasped. “The most ridiculous mech I have ever met. Do you know that?” Brainstorm drew his wings in, high and tight, and Perceptor hurried to add— “But I suppose that’s part of your charm.” 

Brainstorm seemed flummoxed by that. 

Another thought struck him, and he furrowed his brow. 

“Won’t they eventually chew through the capsules?”

Surely Brainstorm had taken precautions? 

From the way he stilled, Perceptor guessed not.

“_Well_, it’s been fun chatting with you Perce, but I’ve gotta jet. Scraplets to feed, projects to find and contain—you know how it is.” 

And before Perceptor could muster a response he’d wiggled out of the booth and was exiting the bar with alarming speed. 

Perceptor briefly considered enabling his FIM chip to help, but he didn’t wish to add insult to injury—in the event that Brainstorm took his accompaniment as a commentary on his competence.

[Comm if you need my assistance] he sent instead. 

He received an emoji in return—a sideways pointing finger that he was too overcharged to interpret. He’d ask later.

Perceptor vacated the booth, intent on returning to his habsuite. His chest pains had grown gradually worse during the course of their conversation, and they were becoming harder to ignore. As he began pushing his way through the crowd, he bumped inadvertently into Nightbeat. The direction of his gaze led Perceptor to believe he’d also observed Brainstorm’s quick retreat. 

“Think we should be worried?” Nightbeat asked, half-seriously. 

“Based on previous experience, we’ll know in approximately three point six minutes.”

“Hah. Well, he wouldn’t be our Brainstorm if he wasn't causing a shipwide incident every other week,” Nightbeat observed with a slight smile. 

By ‘our’, Perceptor could only assume that Nightbeat was referring to their other amicae, and he didn’t like the cold, hard pit that solidified in the bottom of his fuel tank. Of course Nightbeat and Brainstorm were close; he had no reason, nor right to resent the use of the possessive. 

Nightbeat had switched to observing _him_ instead, and it made Perceptor prickle. 

“Nice to see you two getting along,” the detective remarked. “It’s put ‘Storm in a good mood”. 

The words were casual, but Nightbeat was anything but a casual mech. Perceptor could feel the probe in the line of questioning, and he didn’t appreciate it. He ‘hm’ed noncommittally. 

“Things got complicated there for a while,” continued Nightbeat, seemingly undeterred. “You don’t need me to tell you that. But having a support network really helped; mecha he could trust to see past all the bluster”. 

Perceptor didn’t understand why the details of Brainstorm’s amical relationships were relevant here. Nor did he particularly think that it was their business to discuss Brainstorm’s affairs so casually, let alone publically. 

“You know, he’s been saying that he wants someone to take him out,” Nightbeat said, with that same, infuriating nonchalance. 

This time, the cold hard feeling twisted like a clamp around his spark. 

“On a date, or with a sniper?” Perceptor snapped. He was running hot, he was in pain, and most importantly, his patience had worn thin. “Regardless, I don’t think it’s any of my concern.”

Nightbeat seemed taken aback by his animosity, which had been the intention. Perceptor used the moment of surprise to shoulder past. 

Once he’d escaped the confines of the bar, he took a moment to enjoy the cool air of the corridor, before another rattling cough seized him. His spark pounded angrily against the bars of its cage as he struggled to regain control. 

Perceptor knew he was too close to the situation—just as he knew that tonight had been detrimental to both his progress and his condition. It had, however, made one thing clear. Until his situation had been resolved, it was critically important that he avoid triggering episodes unnecessarily.

That meant that above all else, he would need to avoid Brainstorm. He saw no way around it, despite the sinking feeling that it produced.

His comm pinged. He’d received a file, titled The Fault in Our Sparks.zip. Attached was a short message. 

[Hope you know what you’re doing- R].

***

It didn’t take long for Perceptor to realize that Rewind’s files were’t the boon he’d been hoping for. 

Most of the data were familiar—composed of the same statistics and reports that he’d already managed to retrieve. Interspersed, however, were kernels of new information which were as enlightening as they were alarming. He understood why these particular details had not been allowed to circulate in the public report. They were rife with ethical breaches which made Brainstorm’s weapons seem tame in comparison. 

It appeared that the safety and comfort of the patients had been of little concern to the head researcher. Brief snippets of context spoke to mecha taken from their workplaces, their homes—all under the guise of cure. None of them had left the facility, succumbing either to their affliction, or more often, to the various experimental treatments they’d been subjected to. Consent was dubious at best. 

Perceptor grimaced at the descriptions of what had been, by all accounts, unnecessarily painful procedures. What had they hoped to gain from this—from what had essentially amounted to torture? The head researcher—a functionalist through and through—seemed keen on understanding this ‘fault’ in Cybertronian physiology, but it was evident that he was less concerned with curing the afflicted than he was eradicating a threat to his vision of society. 

He’d viewed the mecha themselves as an aberration. 

Perceptor held no such beliefs, and he couldn’t keep the fuel from curdling in his tanks as he read on. There was a sour taste in his mouth by the time he’d finished his purview. An appalling example of institutional abuse, he didn’t like to think about what his fate might have been had this timeline gone differently. 

The other files produced similar feelings. One trial had sought to answer whether elimination of the _stressor_ in those afflicted by sparkache would halt the progression of the disease. 

It hadn’t. 

Perceptor reached for his cube of energon, hoping to banish the invisible tendrils creeping along the back of his neck with something tangible. He tipped the hard edge against his lips, but the energon failed to go down smoothly. He sputtered—his intake resisting the intrusion for a few moments, before finally opening in compliance.

The energon burned the entire way down. 

He put the cube down shakily, wiped the excess from the corner of his mouth, and turned to the next file. 

_Oh_, he thought. _Now, there’s something_. 

Perceptor didn’t know why he hadn’t already considered it. Mnemosurgery was contentious, to be sure, but it was also brutally effective. It stood to reason that it could be the solution to a disease which originated in one’s emotional centre. The threat that it presented to memory and identity meant that few mecha willingly chose to subject themselves to the process, but Perceptor allowed himself to consider for a moment, how easily he might wipe away the turmoil of the last month. 

Wouldn’t it be easier for all involved to simply return to the old routine? No feelings for Brainstorm meant no mortifying confession. It meant Brainstorm that would be spared the hassle of formulating a response for what was sure to be an inconvenient surprise. They could settle back into the dynamic of amicable lab partners, with no one any the wiser. 

With a mnemosurgeon so close at hand, the answer was almost comically obvious. 

A small, vindictive part of him—exhausted, and sick of this ordeal—thought he might as well just get rid of it all, and free himself entirely from the looming spectre of a disease which was sure to be triggered by something else down the road. How often had his feelings been an asset, compared to countless moments of fear, pain, and loss?

But as tempting as the idea was, Perceptor knew that those thoughts stemmed from a place of desperation. His hyper-awareness regarding the progression of his disease meant that every thought he had—every action he took—was now under duress. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be entertaining such extreme measures. 

Perceptor thought of what had become of Shockwave in the wake of his shadowplay, and that was enough to banish temptation. 

There had to be another way. 

He moved on to the last of Rewind’s files. Surely, there was something viable in all of this data, _something_ which would keep this morning from becoming an absolute waste of time. 

_Luminary’s spark lodged in his intake. He was already turning to leave when a warm servo encircled his wrist. As always, his circuitry lit up at the touch, and the confession spilled out before he could stop himself._

_“It’s only ever been you,” he gasped._

Perceptor jumped ahead a few pages. He had a sneaking suspicion as to what it was that he’d been given.

_Sparkstopper pulled him in close, flush against the smoldering furnace of his armor. The movement dragged a desperate moan from his lips, quickly swallowed by a kiss. For the first time in months Luminary’s spark had ceased its fitful hammering, his agony erased by the crackle of charge that had begun to climb his frame. Sparkstopper reached down, fingers trailing along the apex of his thigh—_

Perceptor tried not to squirm, as the heat rose to his face.

This was unlikely to be helpful in any way, shape or form. There was absolutely no need for him to read any further. Two, brief passages had been illuminating enough as to the contents of the novel, and the names alone refused comment.

Still, he couldn’t be absolutely sure that there wasn’t some speck of truth hidden in the passages—not without a more thorough inspection. With a beleaguered sigh, he flipped to the beginning. 

Halfway through the book, Perceptor had confirmed most of his suspicions. Full of romantic cliches and purple prose, it focused almost entirely on the titular characters dancing around one another. The book’s point of view was from that of the hanahaki sufferer, whose condition had taken a rather dramatic turn for the worse—thereby turning the entire affair into a romantic tragedy. He thought the main character rather foolish; it was obvious that the love interest returned his affections, and a confession would likely resolve their sorrowful circumstances. Yet he insisted on willful self-denial. 

Perceptor was trying very hard not to enjoy himself, and as such he was unprepared for the voice that piped up behind him. 

“Any good?” 

It took every iota of Perceptor’s self-control not to jump from his seat like a guilty sparkling. He’d been so preoccupied with the text that he hadn’t even noticed Brainstorm enter the lab. He resisted the urge to hide the datapad from view, but angled it away strategically.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” he said, with forced calm. 

Of course, that only incited Brainstorm’s curiosity, and he peered over Perceptor’s shoulder as if to catch a glimpse. Perceptor was glad he’d had the forethought to blacken the screen. 

“Fine, keep your secrets,” sniffed Brainstorm. “Though if you wanted _privacy_ I don’t know that this is the best place for those kinda vids. We’re _professionals_ here—as you like to remind me.”

Perceptor knew that Brainstorm was prodding him deliberately, and he refused to rise to the bait. Nevermind that the insinuation was uncomfortably close to the truth. 

“Did you need something?” he asked, deliberately uninterested. 

Brainstorm wasn’t in his immediate field of view, but Perceptor could almost feel the way he deflated behind him. 

“Well, since we’re on the subject of _riveting_ media…” he said. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the movie night later?”

Perceptor did, in fact. He wanted very badly, and could feel his resolution to avoid Brainstorm wavering. What did it matter how much he hastened the disease’s progression, when his prognosis seemed so bleak? But he also knew that sabotaging his chances—however slim—would be foolish beyond question. So upon answering, he ensured that his voice was as flat and impersonal as he could muster.

“Not particularly.” 

He was glad he wasn’t looking at Brainstorm. Witnessing his disappointment firsthand had the tendency to ignite another kind of ache in him, and if they made optic contact Perceptor had qualms as to how well he could guard his expression. 

He stood abruptly. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” he said, and turned to make a quick exit. 

He didn’t look back, even as the laboratory door closed behind him.

***

Perceptor let his feet carry him to the shooting range. He barely parsed the journey, only realizing where he’d ended up as he came to a stop outside the door. 

This wasn’t the first time he’d come here in recent times, plagued by restless energy. He kept his sniper in his subspace out of habit—after all, one never knew when one’s skills might be required. And this crew’s affinity for danger made it all the more likely. 

Perceptor had found that one of the best ways to refocus himself was to channel any excess _frustration_ at a series of convenient targets. Firing his rifle took all of his concentration, and as such it was highly therapeutic. 

He was so sick of _thinking_. 

The range was empty, and his spot unoccupied. As Perceptor pulled his rifle from its case and began to methodically assemble it, he wondered at the fact that he hadn’t been here once since the onset of the disease. It was no wonder he’d been feeling so tightly wound, all else considered. 

Neither had he been taking proper care of his gun, he noted. It was perfectly serviceable, of course—completely up to standard—but far from the assiduousness he usually expected of himself. That alone was guaranteed to bring his accuracy down by a full 1.79%, but it couldn’t be helped now. He resolved to conduct proper maintenance on the rifle later tonight. 

Perceptor pulled up a suitable program—something challenging enough that it would prove a proper distraction from the guilt that nipped at his heels. The feeling would be back later, he was sure, but for now he intended to enjoy himself. 

The targets lit up and began to cycle, but as Perceptor lifted the rifle to his shoulder a sharp pain tore through his left side. He gasped—doubling over—and it took all of his willpower not to drop the gun. 

The worst of it passed nearly as quickly as it’d come, but he was left reeling from the unexpected assault. A residual pain continued to throb in his lines as he clutched at the ground for support.

He knew what this was. One of the crystals had wormed its way like shrapnel into his fuel lines. He’d been expecting it to occur before long, but he’d been woefully unprepared for the intensity. The initial sensation had been short-lived because of the crystals’ propensity to dissolve in energon, and as such they wouldn’t cause any _real_ damage. Nonetheless, he could look forward to similar episodes in his future. 

He would need to learn to weather them, in the event that they occurred in a public setting. 

Perceptor pulled the rifle up again, unwilling to let this ruin his brief reprieve.

He lined up the target in his sights, and fired.

***

Against his better judgement, Perceptor continued to frequent Swerve’s.

He found that he didn’t have much of an appetite lately, but keeping up appearances remained paramount, and the company of other mecha dulled the guilt that still gnawed at him. 

Of course, it wasn’t _just_ guilt, he surmised. He’d gotten awfully used to Brainstorm’s company the past year, and now a yawning pit had taken his place. With Drift’s departure, Perceptor’s social circle had been dramatically reduced, leaving him a few close acquaintances. Cybertronians were a social species; despite his propensity for solitude, Perceptor wasn’t immune to the effects of loneliness. 

He understood _why_ Drift hadn’t left any means of contact when he’d gone—couldn’t pass judgement him for his demons, nor his vexing tendency to conflate penance and self-sacrifice—but it still rankled. If there was any time to seek out his amica’s advice, it was now. 

One side-effect of the avoidance policy that he’d adopted was that Perceptor now found himself hyper-aware of Brainstorm’s presence. He was in a state of low-level alert at all times, braced for the possibility of confrontation. He didn’t know what he would say, should Brainstorm demand an answer, only that he was at a loss for the first time in his life—and coping rather poorly. 

Thus, when he heard Brainstorm’s voice carry above the din, he froze—a turbodeer in the headlights. Quickly, he cast his gaze about, and seeing no better option, relocated to the unoccupied bar stool beside Ratchet. 

Perceptor didn’t like sitting at the bar. Something about having his back to the room—unable to survey the crowd—always put his denta on edge. 

Ratchet glanced over at him, and grunted a cursory greeting. For a moment, it seemed Ratchet was going to ignore him in favour of the datapad he’d laid out on the counter—ideal, because Perceptor was cognizant of his haggard appearance—but then he cast a sideways look at him. 

“You look like slag,” Ratchet told him matter-of-factly. 

Perceptor cleared his intake.

“Yes, well. I’ve reached a crucial juncture with several experiments, and they’ve required intensive monitoring. It’s possible that I’ve been neglecting recharge as a result,” he said, with what he hoped was sufficient chagrin. 

He worried that Ratchet would discern that there was more to it than that; inundated by embarrassed patients, the medic had become an expert at exposing half-truths. Still, it was better to admit to something which contained a fraction of the truth than to deny that there was a problem entirely. Ratchet wasn’t a fool, but neither would he be surprised that Perceptor was prioritizing a project over his rest. 

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard _that_ one before,” Ratchet groused. “How many times are we gonna have this conversation? You’re making me feel like a broken record.”

As gruff as he sounded, Perceptor knew that Ratchet’s concern was genuine. And to answer his question, they’d been having this conversation nearly as long as they’d known each other. Ratchet knew as well as he that it was to be an indefinite affair. 

“I will endeavor to obtain whatever bare minimum qualifies as sufficient recharge tonight, if that lays your concern to rest,” Perceptor offered. 

“You know, somehow it doesn’t,” Ratchet responded wryly. “I liked it better when Drift was around to talk some sense into you.” 

Perceptor had an inkling that it wasn’t the only reason Ratchet wished Drift was still on board, but he chose to keep that thought to himself. It was true that he tended to keep a better work-life balance when Drift was around. Brainstorm was just as bad as he when it came to taking breaks. 

On the other servo, as much as Perceptor wished he could consult his amica about his situation, he also knew, deep down, that Drift wouldn’t have let him proceed as he had. Reading fields—or auras, as he liked to call them—was something that Drift was incredibly adept at—down to the most minute cues. It was likely he would have realized something was wrong before Perceptor himself had become aware of it, and he suspected that he would have ended up in medbay by now whether he liked it or not. 

“I’m sure we’ll be back to that routine before long,” he said neutrally. He didn’t believe that Drift’s absence would be permanent—especially now that they had learned the exact circumstances of his departure. Drift had gone seeking something, as he was prone to do; he’d be back when he found it. 

Ratchet didn’t answer him, tapping thoughtfully on the side of his empty glass. Perceptor supposed he didn’t share the same faith, but time would tell. 

There was an ache in his right optic—not an unusual sensation in and of itself, considering that there was no _actual_ optic behind the targeting reticle. Perceptor had deep-wired the reticle himself after his accident, and it sometimes acted up. He rubbed absently at the ridge underneath, trying to banish the twinge. 

“Ever think about letting me fix that for you?” Ratchet asked, clearly keen to change the topic. 

The question gave Perceptor pause. It wasn’t the first time Ratchet had offered to replace what he’d lost. However, it _was_ the first time he’d asked since the end of the war, and the instinctive refusal caught in his throat. 

It wasn’t as though he _needed_ the reticle hardwired. He hadn’t had the skill or resources to replace an optic at the time that it’d shattered, and he’d made due. Afterwards, it’d continued to serve as a reminder. But he was fully capable of attaining the same precision and accuracy with a reticle fitted to a replacement optic. 

Perceptor found himself considering Ratchet’s proposition for the first time in thousands of years. 

He couldn’t now, of course. There was no sequence of events in which Ratchet carried out an operation on him—even a minor one—and didn’t discover his underlying affliction. But should he be successful in his quest for a cure… 

“I’ll consider it,” he offered, and even Ratchet seemed surprised. 

“Alright, well. Just don’t take _too_ long to consider.” 

“Is there a timeframe that I’m unaware of?” 

Ratchet was staring at his empty glass again, as though willing more engex to appear. If Perceptor hadn’t known better, he’d say that he almost looked sheepish. 

“Been thinking about some things,” Ratchet admitted. He looked over at Perceptor, and raised a finger in warning. It was made less threatening by the slight sway of a mech who’d clearly been at the bar for a while. “Now, don’t go telling anyone about this. I haven’t even told ‘Aid yet, and I don’t want people blabbing all over the ship.” Ratchet waved vaguely at their surroundings to make his point. “_Especially_ not Rodimus. I’m not prepared to deal with that right now.” 

“Have you ever known me to be a gossip?” Perceptor asked pointedly. 

The idea that he had regular conversations with Rodimus was also laughable. Most of his time was spent dodging the captain, so as to not be roped into his latest petro-harebrained scheme. Rodimus seemed under the impression that science really was indistinguishable from ‘magic’ based on some of the requests he’d gotten lately. 

Ratchet shrugged. 

“I’m leaving. Gonna try to catch up to him.” 

It wasn’t difficult to discern who ‘him’ was. 

“I mean, not right away,” Ratchet continued. “I’m still settling things—making sure that ‘Aid is ready to take over, for one. But soon.” 

Perceptor was silent a moment. He admired Ratchet for it, truly. He was exhibiting a bravery that he had so far been unable to rustle up. 

“Will you be bringing him back?”

“If that’s what he wants. He’s earned his place here.” It was almost a challenge, the way Ratchet said it. Perceptor sensed the ghost of an old argument, one he was all too familiar with. He knew that it wasn’t directed at him, really. 

“I’d never imply otherwise,” Perceptor assured him. 

There was a commotion across the bar, where Whirl was trying to teach Tailgate ‘some music that doesn’t suck’, as Cyclonus looked on with equal parts annoyance and amusement.

“You’ll have to tell me if those idiots ever figure it out,” Ratchet said, with something close to a smile. Perceptor knew for a fact that that he’d gotten in on the betting pool.

He nodded, unable to shake the envy that gripped him as he observed the three. Even in the midst of a heated argument they gravitated towards one another. There was an unwavering fondness to Tailgate’s voice as he told his companions to cut it out, leaning in to straighten one of Whirl’s rotors. 

Ratchet seemed thoroughly embroiled in the proceedings, and Perceptor took his distraction as a chance to slip silently from his seat and out of the bar. 

He was barely down the hall before someone called his name.

Perceptor stopped in his tracks, turning reluctantly to face the voice, and was greeted by the determined figure of Nautica striding towards him. She’d followed him from Swerve’s, obviously, which meant that his departure hadn’t been as discreet as he’d hoped. 

He had some idea as to what this was about, and he briefly regretted not making his escape while he could still pretend that he hadn’t heard. 

“Yes?” he asked warily. 

She stopped in front of him, before pointing a finger accusingly in his direction. 

“You,” she began, prodding him none too gently on the chestplate. “are acting like a complete aft”. 

Perceptor shifted uncomfortably. He was beginning to realize that it had been a monumental error on his part to not include Brainstorm’s amicae in the equation when calculating his avoidance strategy.

“To exactly what are you referring?” he asked. 

“Oh, come _on_,” she said. “Don’t give me that. You’re a pretty smart guy, Perceptor, even if the way you’ve been acting lately makes me want to question that. You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”

Everything in Nauticas stance spoke to her resolve; the steel in her optics told him that she had no intention of dropping the subject. 

“I would appreciate a clarification, nonetheless,” he said stiffly. He didn’t know how much Nautica knew, and he wouldn’t needlessly incriminate himself. 

“Seriously?” She dropped her finger from his chest and crossed her arms. “Alright, I’ll keep this simple. Brainstorm was really happy up until a couple weeks ago—completely over the moon. Now he’s not. Coincidentally, that’s about the same time you started avoiding him. You do the math.” 

Perceptor knew that Brainstorm had been disappointed by his newfound reluctance to join him in extracurriculars, but surely it hadn’t had such a dramatic impact. He had plenty of friends on the Lost Light, and it was statistically unlikely that he’d ever find himself lonely with such a broad social pool. Not to mention, such steadfast amicae. 

“Brainstorm is his own mech,” Perceptor argued. “He’s hardly reliant on my company, or my approval, to generate his happiness.” 

The look he received was akin to one a lecturer might give a student who’d made a particularly asinine comment.

“You know how much he admires you. Don’t pretend like you don’t,” Nautica said quietly.

Perceptor knew that Brainstorm held a certain intellectual admiration for his work—a kind of scientific idolatry, and perhaps, an appreciation for someone of a similar intellectual calibre—but he felt that Nautica was inflating the extent to which that reflected on their relationship. 

“As a fellow scientist, Brainstorm should understand that sometimes one must prioritize one’s work,” he said. “It’s true that I’ve been busier than usual, but it’s no reflection on him.” A small part of him hoped that Nautica would relay something of this conversation to Brainstorm. He hated to be the cause of any despondency. 

“Well, maybe you ought to _prioritize_ certain people in your life instead,” Nautica suggested, “Because otherwise, I hate to tell you this, but you’re going to end up one lonely mech”. 

“You may be right.” 

They stared at one another for a moment, neither of them content to budge from their position. Eventually, the accusation in Nautica’s gaze overpowered his encroaching guilt, and he cleared his throat. 

“I realize that you want an explanation, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you one—not one that you would find satisfactory, at any rate,” he admitted. “Your concern for Brainstorm is commendable, however. I’m glad to see that there are mecha prepared to come so ardently to his defense-—it’s no less than he deserves.” 

Perceptor understood the reality of the situation, but unfortunately his servos were tied. As things stood, there was nothing he could do to repair his relationship with Brainstorm. Talking to him was only guaranteed to cause more hurt in the long run—for both of them.

Nautica softened slightly. 

“Why don’t you tell him that? It’d be a start, at least.” She furrowed her brows. “I mean, what he really _deserves_ is to hear an explanation from you. What you’re doing right now is just… it’s selfish, and I think you probably know it.”

“It is,” Perceptor agreed. He claimed no defense. 

Nautica clapped her servos together.

“Great! Glad we agree.” A meaningful look. “So you’ll talk to him?”

“I’m afraid I can’t promise you that,” Perceptor said with a shake of his head. “They may seem unclear to you, but I can assure you that I _do_ have my reasons.”

Nautica scoffed.

“Well, all _I_ hear are excuses,” she said. “Look, I like you. I think you’re generally pretty good for Brainstorm—excluding whatever _this_ is. But if you want my support, fix it.”

If only it were so simple. 

“It’s not too late,” Nautica added, and her tone wasn’t without sympathy. “Just don’t put it off much longer.”

She didn’t wait for his response this time. Perceptor watched her walk back towards the bar—a cocktail of unease and uncertainty curdling in his tanks. “A pretty smart guy”, she’d called him. 

He wasn’t so sure.

***

Whirl’s usual brand of chatter cut through the silence of the shooting range, sharp as any bullet. 

He’d set up a few stalls down, and his running commentary might have been a distraction for someone unaccustomed to it. Perceptor, however, had plenty of practice tuning Whirl out, and the voice became little more than background noise as lined up the target in his sights and let off another clean shot. 

Whirl had barged in earlier with a new arsenal, claiming he was here to ‘make these puppies bark’. Perceptor had an inkling as to who he’d acquired the guns from. After all, there were only so many mecha on the ship willing to trust Whirl with a loaded weapon—let alone an experimental one. 

None of the guns he’d tried so far had been particularly volatile, so Perceptor was simply keeping his distance for now—as Whirl continued to gleefully unload his ‘pets’ in the general direction of the targets. 

In all honesty, Perceptor didn’t mind Whirl’s presence. He’d shared firing ranges—and battlefields—with the other mech for years, and as such he’d become predictable. Non-threatening. The irony of that assessment wasn’t lost on him, but he knew where he stood with Whirl, and that was the kind of social stability he’d found himself in sore need of lately. 

Nautica’s warning still rang in his head, louder than the recoil of his rifle. He’d been mulling over their conversation for the better part of the week, but had come up with no alternatives. There was no scenario in which he explained himself to Brainstorm and things returned to normal. He would still be ill, but now Brainstorm would also bear the burden of that knowledge. 

The hurt Brainstorm was experiencing now was miniscule compared to that he would feel should he learn he was the catalyst for Perceptor’s condition. And should they fail to find a cure in time, he would shoulder that undeserved guilt for millennia. 

There was no _fair_ option here. This was damage control—regretful and unfortunate, but necessary. 

Unfortunately, his inner conflict over how to handle Brainstorm wasn’t the only reason that Perceptor had found himself at the range for the third time in ten days. His fluxes had made an official reappearance, and the escalating nature of the dreams had been making it difficult to rest. More often than not he woke up gasping, with Turmoil’s face swimming behind his optics. 

Perceptor grit his denta as his next shot landed 0.86cm off its mark. 

He’d been steadily working his way through a program that adapted to his skill level, building upon prior sessions. It had becoming challenging enough that tracking the blurs—the targets that flitted about in front of him like members of the swarm—required all of his concentration. He couldn’t afford distractions. 

He took a moment to calculate the distance and trajectory of the next wave, and then let off a volley of shots. 

Thwip. 

Thwip. 

Thwip. 

With each successful hit, Perceptor drove away more and more of the disquiet that crowded his mind. He watched the targets shatter with a sense of muted satisfaction; it’d been some time since he’d seen real combat, and his marksmanship hadn’t been this fine-tuned in a while.

The targets came faster and faster, and Perceptor didn’t allow himself to miss a single one. 

On the last pull of the trigger, he realized his mistake. 

The shot tore through the vitals of the final target, marked ‘ally’ by the computer. 

Perceptor swore under his breath. To have to redo that round—after so seamless a run—stung his pride. 

As he reloaded his rifle, he realized that Whirl had gone uncharacteristically quiet. A glance to his left revealed the other mech scrutinizing him. They stared at each other for a moment—Whirl’s optic dilated in some unreadable emotion. 

“Do you have something to say?” Perceptor asked, a little waspishly. He didn’t like being observed like some microbe in a petri dish.

“Yeah—uh. When was the last time you got laid?”

Perceptor didn’t even blink. Experience had taught him it was best not to give Whirl the satisfaction. 

“Let me rephrase: do you have anything socially _acceptable_ to say?” 

Whirl considered—or, more likely, pretended to consider. 

“Nope,” he popped off cheerfully. And then, “But seriously, what crawled up your scope and died? You’re all…” he gestured with wide sweeping claws, “_broody_.”

“I didn’t realize that I was ordinarily a bastion of humour,” Perceptor said flatly. 

Whirl cackled. “Alright, so not broody—bitchy. Same diff”. 

He sighed, and drew up his rifle. There was a 27.3% chance that he could simply ignore Whirl and that he would grow bored. There was a 73.7% chance that Whirl would be offended by the snub, and double down on his efforts to get under his plating. It was probably best to distract him with a change of subject. 

Perceptor was spared from formulating a response by another mech entering the range. The relief he felt was short-lived, however, as a familiar silhouette coloured the doorway. 

Whirl turned curiously to to lay optic on their visitor, having likely witnessed the apprehension on his face. 

“Just the mech I was looking for!” Brainstorm said brightly in their direction. Perceptor knew he had no right to feel disappointed, considering his behaviour as of late, but it didn’t stop the rock from settling in his chest as Brainstorm’s gaze slid to Whirl. 

Perceptor gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement, before shouldering his rifle again and returning to the gallery. 

He knew that it was poor form to eavesdrop, but the size of the room—in combination with its lack of occupants—meant that it was impossible not to catch some of what Brainstorm and Whirl were discussing. It didn’t help that neither of them were mecha who possessed a firm sense of what an ‘inside voice’ entailed. 

Perceptor did his best to focus on the task at hand, and less on the ‘notes’ which Brainstorm was collecting from Whirl. As far as he could tell, they consisted of generally unhelpful things, such as ‘could blow a mech’s face clean off’, ‘feels like a lover's embrace’, and ‘smells like lemon pledge’, but Brainstorm didn’t seem put off by the nonsensical rating system. 

“Great!” he exclaimed. “Hey, listen—come by later and you can borrow the _sweet_ little ion pistol I’ve cooked up. That baby packs a _punch_, and I could use more data.” 

“Is it fully automatic?”

Perceptor didn’t have to look to know that Brainstorm was preening. 

“Does First Aid keep a signed release of liability form from Springer in his office?”

“Primus, I’m so hard right now.” 

Perceptor wasn’t prepared for the way his internals constricted at the salacious tone. He twitched minutely, and it was enough to throw off his next shot. 

It missed the target almost entirely, glancing one of its edges. 

He pulled the rifle up, glaring at the target in question. When it came to delivering crass comments, Whirl didn’t discriminate. Perceptor had weathered enough of them himself, and knew that no amount of chiding would improve his processor-to-mouth filter. There was no reason for the resentment roiling within him. 

After a few seconds he relented. It was obvious that he lacked the concentration to continue, and that doing so would only be a waste of his afternoon. Years of practice meant that he had disassembly down to an artform, and within a minute he was sliding the gun seamlessly back into subspace. 

There was a low whistle beside him, and he glanced over to find Brainstorm scrolling through the leaderboards on the range’s shared terminal. Perceptor knew that he currently led the rankings in each category, just as he knew that the steadily climbing tally of ‘kills’ from his personal program was becoming a bit excessive. The gap in scores spoke to the amount of time he’d been spending here; he’d always prided himself on his precision and accuracy, but his marksmanship hadn’t been this sharp since his stint with the Wreckers. 

“You’ve been busy,” Brainstorm said. His tone was light, and neutral, and so very unlike the mech Perceptor had come to know. 

“It’s important to maintain one’s skills, even in the absence of obvious threats,” he replied, but it rang hollow even to his audials.

Brainstorm raised his servos. “Hey, I’m not gonna stand between a microscope and his high precision rifle. But you don't think this is a little—and I can't believe _I'm_ saying this—excessive? You’ve gotta give yourself a break, Perce.”

Perceptor was inclined to agree, after reeling in the instinctive defensiveness that the comment had sparked. Nonetheless, the range was where he’d found the most peace lately, and he wasn’t inclined to cut down on his hours until the spectres of his past ceased their nighttime visitations. 

“I suppose I haven’t felt the need,” he said instead. “I’m well-aware of my limits, and I’ve yet to exceed them. Your concern is noted, however.” _And appreciated_ teetered on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately failed to emerge. 

Brainstorm snorted. 

“I’m telling you, there’s definitely a need. If you were wound any tighter you’d start spitting diamonds. Seriously, why don’t we pop over to lab for a hot second? I’ve got this anti-theft energon container I want to show you. It’s not even lethal; zero risk of death and/or dismemberment.” 

Perceptor took a deep, regretful breath. 

That called to mind the third reason he’d been spending the majority of his time outside of the laboratory, but it wasn’t anything he could explain to Brainstorm. He’d noticed his transformations catching more and more as time went on, and the last time that he’d made the switch from microscope to root there’d been a brief moment where he thought transformation was going to be impossible. 

If his stiffness were anything to go by, the crystals had settled well into his mechanics at this point. And the thought of working in the laboratory minus half of his abilities was having a strong effect on his mood. 

“I can’t,” Perceptor finally said. 

“Why not?” Brainstorm asked, and it was rather subdued. 

“I simply can’t, Brainstorm.” 

Perceptor made for the door before he could sabotage himself. Their plating brushed as he passed, and the contact came as a shock to his system—nearly halting him in his tracks. 

He thought for a brief moment that Brainstorm might stop him, but the servo never came. 

“What was _that_?” asked a slightly incredulous Whirl, before the door could put a buffer between them. He could only hope that Brainstorm would be able to dissuade Whirl from gossip; he didn’t expect that he’d be playing a very favourable character in this tale, should it spread. 

Later, alone in his room, Perceptor found himself seized by another fit. He coughed, and coughed, until energon and crystal shards littered the floor of his washrack. Leaning against the wall, he let the solvent wash over him until not a trace of evidence remained. The heat seeped into his transformation seams, and alleviated some of the soreness—a moment’s respite. 

It was a pity it couldn't wash away the shame that suffused him.

***

Perceptor walked the hallways of the Lost Light aimlessly, with no destination in mind.

He knew only that he needed a break from his usual nighttime ruminations. It was late in the night cycle, and though the Lost Light had its share of night owls, the odds of running into another mechanism on such a large ship were slim. 

Perceptor let his feet carry him forward, and the hallways blurred together as he took the time to review the week’s notes. He’d _thought_ he’d been onto something—a chemical compound which when carefully applied, might stem crystal growth at its root. Unfortunately, while it had dissolved the sample with ease, when Perceptor had tried it on himself he’d found that the growth had returned with a vengeance within the cycle. 

It seemed that damaging the crystals—even on a molecular level—encouraged the same rapid healing response from his frame. It was no more effective than the surgical removals had been for others. Unless the faulty CNA was erased from his frame entirely, it would continue to replicate. 

Perceptor glanced up from his pad in order to get his bearings, and drew to an abrupt halt. He hadn’t realized he’d gone so far, but the name on the door in front of him proved otherwise.

It also suggested that perhaps he’d had an unconscious reason for heading in this direction. 

Perceptor tucked his datapad back into subspace, and stared at the incriminating letters on the plaque. Was there really any point? He knew the source of his dilemma. He acknowledged his feelings for Brainstorm, as well as the unlikelihood of their return. It hurt, of course, but voicing that aloud wouldn’t make it cease to do so. 

It was highly unlikely that Rung was even in, judging by the hour on his chronometre. 

The door slid open before Perceptor had even registered that he’d knocked. 

Rung entire countenance teeked of surprise. “Oh! Hello, there. What can I do for you?” 

Perceptor cleared his throat. It was too late to withdraw now. 

“My apologies for the late hour. I confess, I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he admitted. 

Rung smiled. “Yes, well... on occasion, the paperwork does get the best of me. I’m sure you’re familiar with how it tends to pile up when one isn’t looking.” 

He wasn’t actually. Perceptor was meticulous about filling out his forms as he went along. Tedious as it was, it avoided this kind of backlog.

Brainstorm, on the other servo… As a general rule, Perceptor avoided looking at the precarious stack of datapads he kept on the corner of his workstation. He’d given up on getting Brainstorm to fill them out expediently, and settled for them being submitted in the correct order. 

However, Perceptor gauged that nodding in agreement was the socially appropriate response here, so he did so. 

“I was hoping you might have time for a chat,” he said awkwardly. “I understand if you’re busy, however—especially considering the unannounced nature of my visit. Perhaps it would be best if returned at a more convenient time.” 

_Please say yes._

“Did you want to schedule an appointment?” Rung asked, and Perceptor balked. 

“No, nothing so official. I simply thought to seek the advice of a… a peer,” Perceptor stumbled over the word, not sure what was applicable, or appropriate. He and Rung had certainly spent enough time in each others’ company—usually with the addition of Ratchet—to be called ‘friends’ by other mechas’ standards, but Perceptor wasn’t always the best judge when it came to relationships. His current situation was only the most glaring example.

Rung’s smile didn’t falter; if he’d noted Perceptor’s hesitation he didn’t show it—retaining the same mild and pleasant expression he usually wore. 

“Why don’t you come in?” he offered. 

Well, it appeared that there really was no escaping it now. 

Perceptor allowed Rung to usher him in. Upon entering the office, he was thrown off-balance yet again, unsure as to where he should sit. He wasn’t comfortable with the couch that loomed in his periphery; he wanted this to be as unofficial an encounter as possible, and that was reserved for patients. Rung’s desk at the back of the room was marginally better, though would still involve a degree of professional separation. 

Thankfully, Rung made the choice for him. He headed for a pair of chairs situated by a small end table in the corner, glancing back to make sure that Perceptor was in tow. They settled in, and Rung rested his elbows on the table, linking his fingers together. 

Perceptor carefully eased himself into the opposite seat, glad of the chance to sit. His frame didn’t hurt any less for it, but the fatigue was nearly as bad as the pain lately. 

“Now, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” Rung asked. He didn’t pull out any kind of recording device or notepad, for which Perceptor was grateful.

“I wished to seek your advice, in regards to a personal matter,” he said. But where to begin? What was... safe? 

Seated in front of a potential confidant—given the opportunity to divulge at least a fraction of the truth—Perceptor found himself at an unexpected loss. He hadn’t prepared any sort of strategy for this. 

Rung waited patiently as Perceptor organized his thoughts, which spilled out in every direction like loose wiring. As the silence continued to stretch, however, his brows furrowed in concern. He took off his glasses and set them on the table. Unshielded, his optics shone with a gentle intensity. 

“Perceptor, are you alright?” 

It struck him suddenly, that it’d been a long time since someone had asked him that. The weight of the situation caved in on him all at once, and he gave a weak laugh. 

“No—no, I don’t think so.” It was a small relief to admit it.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” 

Perceptor hesitated once more. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to withhold many of the details,” he hedged.

Rung nodded. “Whatever you’re comfortable divulging, of course. I won’t pry. But please know that I’ll keep anything you tell me in _utmost_ confidence.”

Perceptor didn’t doubt Rung’s ethics—personal or professional—but that assurance only extended so far. As a professional, Rung would be obligated to tell Ratchet should he believe Perceptor was putting himself in harm’s way, and he doubted that his research would be enough to dissuade him. On a personal level, well. Rung was amica with Nautica, and the chance of this conversation making its way to Brainstorm was very slim, but not nonexistent. 

“I feel trapped, I suppose,” Perceptor mused. “In my attempts to solve a problem, I seem to have complicated it further. I see no way to undo the damage—at least, not one that doesn’t cause more harm in the interim.” He was referring simultaneously to Brainstorm and his condition; intertwined as they were, they were almost impossible to separate for this conversation. 

“I assume that this problem in social in nature?”

“Yes.”

“I understand how that might be frustrating,” Rung said. He leaned in a bit to rest his chin on his linked servos. “But it’s also an extremely common situation to find oneself in. No bot is perfect; we all make mistakes. Sometimes they’re the result of our own actions, sometimes of our circumstances, but recognizing them is the first step in rectifying them. And in all my years of counselling, I can’t say I’ve encountered many situations which were truly beyond repair.”

“I don’t,” Perceptor bit out. Rung raised his eyebrows, and he cleared his intake self-consciously. “Make mistakes, that is,” he clarified. “I’m unaccustomed to such... _monumental_ failure.” He’d spent so much of his life ensuring that there were no cracks in his armor—no vulnerabilities for other mecha to seize hold of. He expected nothing less than perfection. 

Rung seemed to be weighing his next words carefully. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but you strike me as someone who maintains a certain level of control over their life,” he said. 

“I… yes. I suppose so.” Always to some degree, but with an increased awareness after Turmoil. 

“You’re also very good at what you do,” Rung continued. “Problem-solving is an integral part of your role as a scientist, and you’ve made great strides in your field because of your knack for it. You’re used to having—at least, in your perception—all of the answers. Am I horribly off track?”

“No, I would say that’s fairly accurate.”

“Is it possible that your perceived inability to fix this ‘problem’ lies in an aversion to the unknown?” Rung asked. “An uncertainty as to what effect your words or actions will have?”

Perceptor fidgeted. The unknown factors in this case were numerous and varied; chief amongst them was his inability to gauge Brainstorm’s perception of the situation, his lack of progress in circumventing the nature of his disease, and perhaps most ominously, what lay _after_, should he fail.

“That is likely a large part of it,” he admitted. 

“It’s impossible to know every aspect of our lives,” said Rung gently. “There will always be things outside of our sole control. And I think it would behoove you to consider that, when faced with something—or someone—that you’re unable to ‘solve’, perhaps it isn’t a matter of solving so much as compromising.”

Perceptor made a noncommittal noise. He could see the merit—and the truth—in Rung’s words, but knowing that he didn’t like to be at the mercy of external forces didn’t make him any less inclined to relinquish that control. 

“Introspection and communication are some of the most effective tools at your disposal, and I urge you to use them,” Rung said, and after a moment, “I hope this isn’t too forward, but I feel I must ask—is this about Brainstorm?”

Perceptor sighed heavily. “Is it common knowledge, then?” 

It was an unpleasant revelation to find himself the subject of the rumour mill, but not surprising on a ship that was always raring for a spectacle. In his experience, gossip spread like wildfire.

“I wouldn’t say ‘common’,” Rung began tactfully. “But there are those that have noticed, yes.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered. 

“You’re under no obligation to share the details with me, of course, but if you’d like my advice on how to proceed it _would_ be helpful to glean a bit of the context,” Rung said. He was right, of course. “Would it be possible for you to tell me _why_ you’re avoiding him?”

“Regretfully not.” 

“Has he done something to upset you?”

“No, none of this is his fault,” Perceptor said. “It’s mine”. 

Rung hesitated, likely trying to formulate a question which would result in information that he could actually use.

“While a sense of camaraderie is encouraged amongst crewmembers, you’re not obligated to maintain strong relationships with anyone,” he finally said. “In fact, knowing and establishing one's social boundaries can be a very healthy exercise. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, and wish to remain simple colleagues, then that is a conversation I encourage you to have with him.”

Perceptor knew very well that he wasn’t duty-bound to cultivate relationships with his colleagues and co-workers; in fact, he was ordinarily quite adept at keeping them at arms-length. But as usual, Brainstorm had defied the status quo with impunity.

“I don’t wish to end my friendship with Brainstorm,” Perceptor informed him. “I hold him high in my esteem, and enjoy his company immensely. Overall, I’ve found our relationship to be… fulfilling. And I understand that my avoidance is hurting him, which is not my intent.” 

Perceptor understood that his responses were not particularly illuminating ones, and that he was essentially asking Rung to fashion him a solution from scratch, without a blueprint or instructions. If Rung was consternated by that fact, he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.

“Have you mentioned this to him?” Rung asked.

This conversation was beginning to instill an unwelcome sense of deja vu in Perceptor. He supposed that his silence was telling, because Rung forged on, delivering sympathetic, but firm advice. 

“Your relationship with Brainstorm is in a state of limbo,” he said, “and that transitional period makes you uncomfortable. That’s fine; it’s a perfectly Cybertronian reaction. But if you want to resolve this impasse—and the discomfort that you feel as a result—it _will_ require communication. Communication is at the core of _all_ relationships, platonic or otherwise.” 

“I know that,” Perceptor snapped, and then a moment later, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” 

Rung leaned back in his chair and sighed. 

“I’m afraid that I don’t have any further insights for you,” he said. “I’m sorry if it’s not what you were looking for.” 

Perceptor rubbed at the bridge of his nose, right between his optics. He felt a headache coming on. 

“I appreciate you taking the time for what has likely been a frustrating conversation,” he said. “I’m not being entirely fair, and I _do_ understand the value of your counsel. It’s simply untenable at this time, for reasons I can’t divulge. It’s the crux of my dilemma.” 

Perceptor was sick of rerunning the same logical loops. He was trapped in a mental labyrinth of his own devising, with dead ends at every turn. 

Rung’s expression gentled. He reached out and laid a servo on Perceptor’s arm. He didn’t pull from the reassuring touch, though his sore frame protested the contact. 

“You’re a brilliant mech, Perceptor” he said. “I know that you understand the options before you; now it’s simply a matter of making a choice. You’ve said that you feel there isn’t one, but in my experience that’s seldom true. Evaluate your priorities. If mending your relationship with Brainstorm is your foremost, then decide whether there’s an area in your life that you’re willing to make a sacrifice in order to do so.”

Perceptor nodded mutely. 

“But that’s enough of a lecture,” Rung said lightly. “I won’t presume to tell you that you don’t know your own mind, and I believe wholeheartedly that you’ll make the right choice in the end. It’s clear that you’ve been dwelling on this for some time, however, and to that end I do have one last piece of advice.” 

“Please.” 

“Stop thinking.” 

Perceptor opened his mouth to comment on the nonsensicality of that statement, but Rung held up a finger, and he bit back his protest. 

“I realize that might seem a tad contradictory, but I don’t mean that you should abandon your introspection entirely—just that you should take a moment to allow something _else_ to dominate your thoughts. You work very hard Perceptor, but I never see you take breaks. I imagine Ratchet would agree with me.” 

There was no argument to be won there.

“And,” Rung continued. “We’ve determined that you feel stuck—trapped, if I may use your word—rehashing the same non-solutions. Given the chance to clear your mind, you may find that you have a new perspective when you return to the issue.” 

“I’m not sure how,” Perceptor admitted. 

He could see the benefit of returning to the problem with fresh optics, but he wasn’t especially good at taking time for himself, and with the clock ticking as it was he didn’t know that it was even possible. He felt guilty enough about the amount of time he wasted at the range. 

“Is there something that you find relaxing—a hobby perhaps?” 

“I have my side projects in the lab,” he offered. “I find them sufficiently stimulating, and often attend to them when I’ve cleared my schedule.” 

“That’s not quite what I meant,” Rung said. “Is there anything you enjoy outside of a science or work-related capacity?” 

He’d incriminated himself already; he might as well add to the pile. 

“I’ve been spending time at the shooting range lately, in an attempt to do exactly as you say, but I believe that it’s become something of a maladaptive strategy,” he admitted. 

“I see,” Rung said, mildly. “Perhaps a change of pace is in order, then.” He hummed thoughtfully. “I realize that we haven't had an inordinate amount of time for recreation the past few million years, but is there perhaps something that you used to enjoy doing? Something you might pick up again?” 

Perceptor assumed that Rung was referring to his pre-war life. During the war, most of his energy had gone towards projects benefiting the Autobot campaign, and while his time in the Wreckers had, oddly enough, allowed for more free-time as they moved between assignments, he’d never engaged in many of their curriculars—drinking and fragging being the two most popular pursuits. He’d buried himself in armor and weapon upgrade projects instead. 

What _had_ he enjoyed before the war? Surely relaxing hadn’t always felt like such a luxury. Sometimes Perceptor felt as though a complete stranger had replaced the eager, inquisitive academy mech of the past, and was now living the life that should have been his. 

He recalled that he’d once enjoyed mathematical exercises—games and puzzles and the like. Numbers were clean, and reliable, and he’d gleaned great satisfaction from solving the particularly challenging ones. 

“I’ll come up with something,” he vowed. 

Rung contemplated him a moment.

“Well, should you wish to seek a friend’s advice again, might I suggest an alternate venue?” he prodded. “I believe that you might be more comfortable in a casual setting, and I’m told that I should leave my office more. Perhaps we could find one of those hobbies together.” 

The good-natured delivery softened the rebuke, but Perceptor was reminded that his blurring of the lines with this non-appointment was not entirely appropriate—as he’d made it clear he didn’t want to speak in the capacity of a patient. It was likely not a position which Rung enjoyed navigating. 

“I… yes. That would be agreeable,” he said. “And once again, thank you for your time. I’ll endeavour not to take up any more of it.” He shifted, intending to leave Rung to his work. 

Rung’s gaze was inscrutable, but whatever he saw in Perceptor made him shake his head.

“It was no trouble,” he said. “I was on the verge of wrapping up as it was. In fact, I think I’ll take my own advice in this instance. If you’d care to stay for a cup of energon, I can pull out my Fullstasis board, and we can _both_ take a well-deserved break.”

Perceptor bit back his first instinct, which was to refuse. 

He was in a good deal of pain. It pulsed from his spark to his extremities in a low, unrelenting swell. But that wouldn’t be fixed by returning to berth. He would likely spend the majority of his night trying to find a comfortable position, tossing and turning to steal a few unsatisfying cycles of recharge. This would be a distraction, at the very least. 

And deep down, he knew that he wanted the company.

He would need to be careful, however. There was a reason Perceptor limited his interactions with the crew; one ill-timed coughing fit could give him away.

“I could probably scrounge up some rust sticks as well,” Rung added, when Perceptor didn’t answer immediately. “But please, don’t feel obligated. It’s rather late, and I understand if you’d like to return to your habsuite and rest.”

Perceptor thought that perhaps he wasn’t the only one who’d been suffering for lack of company. 

What’s more, their conversation had made him increasingly aware of his looming mortality. Perhaps it _was_ time to start living his life to the fullest, while he still could. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to seize enjoyment when and where it presented itself.

“No, I believe I _will_ take you up on that,” he said.

***

Perceptor woke to a splitting headache.

He groaned. This one was monumental by even his standards—and he’d pulled enough all-nighters in the past month to consider himself an adequate judge. The pressure behind his optics called up the image of a leaking dam, fit to burst at any moment. 

Surely he hadn’t imbibed that much? After an hour of play he and Rung had pulled out a bottle of twice-distilled Praxian vintage to share, but they’d consumed responsibly, and he recalled leaving the room with only the barest hint of a pleasant buzz.

It’d been enough to loosen his tongue, he recalled ruefully, but he hadn’t incriminated himself, so much as revealed more than he’d meant to regarding his... feelings toward a certain colleague.

Rung had taken it in stride, and shared a few embarrassing tidbits about his own history that Perceptor supposed put them on an even playing field. If they hadn’t been friends before, he imagined that this had officially gained him one.

That brought his grand total on the ship to two—three, if Drift returned from his quest. He refrained from including Brainstorm, for he was sure that he’d muddled that beyond saving at this point. Rung hadn’t quite managed to convince him otherwise. 

Perceptor’s frame had been surprisingly kind to him last night, though at one point during their game he’d had to turn away to cough for a few nervous moments. He’d folded the crystals discreetly into a cloth before subspacing it, and Rung had been too preoccupied with his next move to notice. 

Perceptor sat up with a wince, and brought a servo to his forehead. He pressed between his optics in a futile attempt to hold back the tide, and realized that there was still a faint current of charge buzzing under his armour. How inconvenient. 

It was unusual, as well. Any lingering effects from his overindulgence should have fully dissipated by now—banished by a surprisingly long recharge. He’d been running uncharacteristically hot for some time, however, undoubtedly another unrecorded side-effect of the disease.

Brainstorm’s face swam unheeded to the front of his processor. If his spark hadn’t ached so intensely he might have been tempted to pay it some attention, and soothe the _other_ ache that set in when his thoughts turned down this route. Perhaps it was for the best that he’d been unable to open his sparkchamber for a few days now. 

Perceptor pushed any thoughts of dispelling charge from his mind, and pulled himself to his feet instead. 

His right optic was bothering him more than usual. He’d done a competent job of integrating his targeting reticle into his socket, but he was no surgeon, and it hadn’t been a clean loss. Sometimes the old injury deigned to remind him of its presence. 

Perceptor reached behind the reticle, expecting to feel the usual scarring and froze as he encountered something uncharacteristically jagged instead. 

He reached up with his other servo and disconnected the reticle with practiced ease; it caught, however, and when the lock finally gave, it didn’t release with its usual click, but with a rather concerning crackle. Perceptor looked down at the stem he now held, and observed with dismay the crystals that clung to the metal like limpets. 

A trip to the mirror revealed the extent of the growth, and Perceptor tried to tamp down the initial panic that arose in him. There was nothing _inherently_ worse about this, compared to the crystals that lurked unseen in adjacent systems, but seeing them so starkly—so alien and obtrusive against pale mesh—unsettled him to his core. 

He couldn’t go out like this. The glittering cluster would act as a beacon, signalling to anyone he met that there was something very wrong with his frame. He traced the rough edge of his socket, feeling at the places where crystal met scarred protomesh, and knew that there was nothing else to be done. From his subspace, he pulled the field kit he still kept on him, in case of emergency, and quickly found what he was looking for.

Perceptor positioned the blade carefully, and took a deep vent as he began to cut. 

***

Taking refuge in the lab, Perceptor was relieved to find himself the sole occupant. 

He’d been deliberately scheduling their shifts so that they didn’t overlap, but Brainstorm didn’t make a habit of keeping to his assigned hours, and there was always the chance that he’d appear, inconvenient and unannounced.

Perceptor’s socket throbbed, displeased with the morning’s abuse. He’d managed to carve out the majority of the crystals without opening new wounds, but scraping the remaining stems from the mesh had left him angry and raw. 

He’d chosen to leave the reticle out. His primary reasoning for the decision was that he needed to monitor the rate of regrowth, but he’d also been concerned that if he replaced it, he might find it impossible to remove the next time. 

Unfortunately, that meant that he was receiving no visual feedback from his right side for the time being. He didn’t like the vulnerable feeling that it induced. 

Currently, he was attempting to take Rung’s advice. As he waited for the results from his latest series of tests, he’d taken the opportunity to reignite an old hobby. He’d modified a numerical game that he remembered from Earth, something called ‘sudoku’. The original form of the game had been too simplistic for his tastes, but he’d enjoyed the concept—so he’d converted the board to a 3D structure, and substituted the numbers for complex equations. The random program he’d devised had churned out a number of puzzles to keep him occupied. 

Perceptor was well-entrenched in the game, when someone burst through the lab doors.

He tensed on instinct.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Brainstorm, but Whirl, who’d barged in unannounced. There was a decidedly _manic_ energy radiating from him. The latter fact was less surprising.

“Can I help you?” he asked warily. 

“Doubt it!” said Whirl cheerily. “Not unless you’ve got a badass and/or super illegal weapon for me to test.” This last part was said a little hopefully. 

Perceptor levelled un unimpressed look in his direction. Really, Whirl had known him for _how_ long? 

“Buzzkill.” 

Perceptor opened his mouth to ask Whirl to leave, and to return at a more convenient time—namely, when Brainstorm would be here to entertain his destructive impulses. Whirl was already barging ahead, however. 

“I was hoping that you would’ve replaced that rod in your aft with something more fun by now, but I guess that was too much to hope for, huh?”

Perceptor sputtered. “E-excuse me?!” 

“I’m just _saying_. I bet Brainstom’d be happy to help you out. He’s good with his servos; you don’t need two optics to see _that_,” Whirl chortled. “And clearly he hangs out with me, so you won’t get points off for being a member of the cyclops club.”

Perceptor’s fingers curled tightly around the datapad he held, with enough force that a small crack appeared in the formerly-pristine screen. His struts had gone rigid, and the tightness that coiled behind his chest was decidedly _angrier_ than the usual pressure. 

“But I mean, if you’re not gonna go for it, maybe I’ll take a shot. You think he does pity frags?”

“I think that you should leave,” he said coldly. The dark cloud of his field was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. He knew that engaging Whirl would be exceptionally stupid under ordinary circumstances, let alone in his current state, and he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. 

But Perceptor needed him gone. _Now_. 

Whirl sized him up. 

“Yeah? Or what?” 

Of course, that was when Brainstorm chose to make his appearance—striding into the lab with an enthusiasm that rivalled Whirl’s initial entrance. 

“Hey, buddy! You here for that ion pistol?” he asked Whirl brightly. “I added a little _something something_ while I was waiting for you to show, and _whew_. Try not to point it at any—woah. Everything okay here?” 

He seemed to have finally noticed the tension undercutting the room. 

“Fine,” Perceptor said curtly, unclenching his fist and turning his back on the two of them. If they enjoyed each others’ company so much, then he would step aside and let them get on with their business. 

“If you say so,” Brainstorm said dubiously, and then, ignoring all of Perceptor’s cues to engage with his _visitor_ rather than him, “What’s that?” 

Perceptor assumed he was referring to the datapad, which had sustained only mild injury. 

“A modified form of sudoku,” he responded, with deliberate neutrality. “It’s a mathematical exercise designed to stimulate problem-solving and logi—“

“Booooring,” Whirl interrupted. “C’mon, let go blow something up,” he said, elbowing Brainstorm. 

Perceptor tamped down his ire. It still crawled incessantly under his armour, but he _refused_to give Whirl the satisfaction of provoking him again. 

“Sudoku’s all about precise, interlocking parts. Kind of like a watch,” Brainstorm pointed out. “You might actually like it.” 

“Bold of you to assume I can count.” 

Through sheer force of will, Perceptor was able to tune out their chatter and return to his work. He was so successful, in fact, that he failed to realize that Whirl had left until Brainstorm was beside him, and poking at the project he’d left out on his table. 

“So, noticed you changed the lab schedule,” he said off-handedly, and Perceptor stiffened. 

“Yes,” he admitted carefully. There was no point denying it.

Brainstorm was standing on his left side. When Perceptor turned to look at him, whatever he’d meant to say died in his mouth. His optics shot to the empty socket, now in view.

And while his gaze was devoid of pity, Perceptor couldn’t help but reach for it self-consciously. He was aware that the mess of welds and pitted mesh was not the most aesthetically pleasing. 

“You okay?” Brainstorm asked. 

“Yes,” Perceptor said, after a pause. That wasn’t entirely true, but Brainstorm was clearly inquiring after his optic. “I was experiencing some discomfort this morning, and removing the reticle for the day seemed the most prudent course of action.” 

“Huh. Y’know I never noticed it was gone.”

“You had no reason to. How often do you remove your mask in public settings?” Perceptor said. His mouth was dry, and he was beginning to feel bare under Brainstorm’s scrutiny. 

“Point.”

Brainstorm reached out, and Perceptor’s vents stilled. Something on his face must have reminded Brainstorm that he was in the process of breaching several social conventions, because he paused—servo lingering a few scant centimeters from Perceptor’s face. 

“Mind if I take a look?” 

Perceptor nodded. He felt as though he were rapidly losing control of the situation. 

Brainstorm’s servos were gentle as he turned his head to survey the old damage and newer welds. He’d jury-rigged the initial connections immediately after the incident, and refined them later once he had access to more extensive supplies. The medics hadn’t been happy, but his work had been functionally perfect, and their complaints inconsequential compared to the increase in performance. 

“Ever thought about replacing it?” Brainstorm asked, and if he had an opinion on the matter his voice didn’t give it away. 

Perceptor was rather preoccupied by the tiny electric currents that spread out from where Brainstorm’s servos made contact with his plating. His spark had begun to thud painfully in its cage.

“I—yes. Ratchet and I have discussed the matter recently.” 

“Yeah?” Brainstorm prompted. He was being uncharacteristically subdued.

“It would be the logical course of action,” Perceptor hedged. “I’ve no reason not to, particularly with Ratchet’s expertise so readily available. And a few recent conversations have suggested that perhaps it’s time that I... move on.”

Brainstorm had stopped examining the socket, but he hadn’t released Perceptor’s chin, and he couldn’t quite find the incentive to pull away. 

“You didn’t let him nag you into it right?” Brainstorm asked. “You should only do it if _you_ want to.” 

Perceptor sighed. 

“It’s not that I mind it, per se,” he mused. “It doesn’t impede my functionality, except on days such as today. In fact, the reticle allows me to amass environmental data that an ordinary optic wouldn’t, which I find frequently useful. But it could just as easily be fitted as an accessory, rather than an aid.” 

Perceptor wasn’t sure why he still hesitated at the idea. He supposed that it was a _reminder_, for better and for worse. 

“There’s also the matter of aesthetics,” he added, uncomfortably cognizant of the fact that Brainstorm was currently receiving a very close view. “I realize that it isn’t exactly appealing, and it has the potential to give others the wrong impression.” 

Namely, that he was… flawed. Inadequate. Perceptor didn’t much enjoy that feeling—the possibility that others might judge, and find him lacking. He didn’t want mecha to look at him with pity, as though the war had stripped something vital from him. 

If he replaced the optic, he wouldn’t feel as though he had to wear the reticle every day to conceal the loss. 

“I think,” Brainstorm said quietly. “That you try too hard to live up to other mechas’ expectations.” 

It was delivered without judgement, but Perceptor still felt the weight of it. 

“Numerous sociological studies have shown that mecha who exhibit a standard symmetry to their features are judged as more reliable and trustworthy by their peers, and are overwhelmingly regarded as more attractive.”

Brainstorm snorted. “Okay, I mean first off they should be admiring that big, beautiful brain of yours. But if anyone out there thinks you’re not a looker then _they’re_ the ones that outta get their optics repaired.”

That… what exactly was he supposed to say to that? 

He and Brainstorm stared at each other for a moment, an odd tension simmering in the air between them. 

But then Brainstorm let go of his chin, and spun abruptly around. 

“Anyway,” he said and there was an underlying nervousness to him as he stalked over to his side of the laboratory. “If you do go through with it you should totally come to me for the new optic. I mean, sure, Ratchet can build you a perfectly functional part, but can he give you _laser beams_? I don’t think so.” 

“I _don’t_ think that will be necessary,” said Perceptor, still processing the last few minutes. 

“Your loss,” Brainstorm said brightly, but there was something forced about it. He continued to rummage through the cabinet next to his workstation. “But hey, now that we’re not playing lab tag I’ve got something _awesome_ to show you—hold on.” 

“Will it explode? Or cause an intergalactic incident by way of existence?” 

“_No_”, Brainstorm said. “And I’m offended that you would think so.” 

That was unlikely. Brainstorm was well aware of his experiments’ propensity to end in disaster,. That was what made his sloppy lab practices all the more infuriating. 

When Brainstorm finally turned to him, he was holding a rather innocuous looking cube of energon with a straw protruding from it. 

Perceptor found himself immediately suspicious. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Brainstorm complained, as he brought it over. The cube was shoved unceremoniously in his direction, and the straw came precariously close to his good optic. “At least _try_ it first.”

Well. The likelihood that Brainstorm would _actually_ poison him was low (9.6%). Perceptor accepted the cube warily, and then took a sip. 

_Oh_. That was rather pleasant, actually. The energon fizzed on his tongue—a little pop of sensation that brought out the beryllium Brainstorm had sweetened it with. 

“You carbonated energon?” he asked bemusedly. 

“_I carbonated energon_,” Brainstorm crowed triumphantly. “Isn’t it great? Honestly, I can’t believe I’m the first mech to bother. I mean, we’ve been sleeping on that for _how_ many million years?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Perceptor’s lips as Brainstorm continued to babble on about how ‘Swerve was going to owe him big time—or at least a percentage of the cut’. He took another sip of the energon, trying to ignore the discomfiting sensation that was originating in his midsection. 

He didn’t realize his fuel pump had tightened into a fist until he was punched by the nausea. 

It was an unmistakable feeling—one Perceptor didn’t oft experience, but remembered well from those early ‘victory celebrations’ with the Wreckers, when he’d been young and naive and still thought he could match Impactor for drinks.

The energon drained from his face, and before Brainstorm could finish asking him what was wrong he was darting for the nearest sink—whereupon the contents of his fuel tank made themselves known to the world. Said contents consisted of the morning’s energon, mixed in with an alarming number of crystal shards. 

The indignity of heaving over a laboratory waste disposal sink was buried beneath his rising panic. 

Okay, I know it cant have been _ that_ bad,” called Brainstorm, but he was projecting loud concern.

Perceptor stood there, staring at the sink, and raced to think of a solution. All of his plans had begun to crumble around him in the span of a minute, and he was utterly unprepared for the fallout.

“Percy? Are you okay?” Brainstorm asked, approaching cautiously on his non-impaired side. “Can I help? Should we call Ratchet?” 

Perceptor remained silent. He was having difficulty feeling his extremities. His vision had narrowed to a pinpoint, and the outside world felt very far away. 

“Or I could keep playing twenty questions with myself. Primus knows I’ve had plenty of practice lately,” Brainstorm said.

“Please don’t be facetious,” Perceptor managed.

The anger that spiked from the Brainstorm’s field was grounding. It gave him enough presence of mind to focus on the problem at servo. Brainstorm hadn’t gotten close enough to see the mess inside the sink, and it was critical that he keep it that way.

“Ooh, we’re breaking out the three syllable words now,” Brainstorm said, with cutting sarcasm. “We’re being _verbose_. See? I can use three syllable words too.” 

“That was two syllables.”

“You know what else is two syllables? Asshole.” 

Perceptor gave a small, strangled laugh. He supposed that had been long in coming.

“Primus, just _talk_ to me, Perce,” said Brainstorm. “Tell me what’s going on in that fortress you call a head. Don’t make me resort to breaking and entering; I can’t have another citation on my record.”

It was an apt comparison. His frame, at least, had been under siege for some time. 

“I’m not stupid,” Brainstorm added. 

“I know you’re not.” Brainstorm was so brilliant that it sometimes hurt to look at him. 

“Then how about you don’t _treat_ me like I am. That’d be a great start.” 

Perceptor didn’t even know how he’d begin to articulate everything that weighed on his mind. What could he say? That Brainstorm had become the axis upon which his world spun? That he had the gravitational pull of a black hole, and that Perceptor had found himself teetering on the event horizon? 

Brainstorm was every element that Perceptor wasn’t. If Perceptor was helium, then Brainstorm was caesium, fluorine. He was dynamic, and passionate, and infuriatingly unpredictable. He was the thrill of discovery, and a radiant enthusiasm that permeated Perceptor’s cool exterior and warmed him to his struts. 

Brainstorm made him _laugh_—and that in itself spoke volumes. 

Perceptor opened his mouth, but promptly found himself closing it again. 

He _couldn’t_. 

Brainstorm scoffed, and made as if to turn around, and Perceptor was seized by an illogical panic—a small voice that told him he was squandering his last opportunity. He was _dying_. What was there left to regret? 

The last vestiges of his control slipped free from their mooring, and Perceptor reached out as he spoke—determined to keep Brainstorm from leaving.

“Brainstorm, no. Please, I—” he broke off again, still lacking the _words_. 

Infuriated, Perceptor made the most impulsive decision of his functioning. 

He kissed him. 

Brainstorm squeaked.

The mask was an unfortunate obstacle—one Perceptor hadn’t planned for in his haste—and it heightened the sense of embarrassment that swelled in him as Brainstorm failed to react further. He merely stood there, excruciatingly still. 

Perceptor’s spark lurched painfully; there was an acrid taste in his intake that burned down to his core.

He pulled away, simmering with mortification, and unable to meet Brainstorm’s optics. This had been a terrible mistake, on too many levels to count. Perceptor prepared to apologize, and he failed to realize that Brainstorm had moved until he was being kissed—properly this time.

It was much better this time around, he thought dazedly. Without the barrier, he could appreciate the way Brainstorm’s lips molded to his, and his sigh was one part pleasure, two parts relief. If Brainstorm tasted the acid on him, he didn’t seem to mind. 

Perceptor could count the number of partners he’d had on one servo, and he wasn’t used to being the smaller of the pair. There’d been that time with Jetfi—but no, that wasn’t what he ought to be focusing on at the moment. 

He adjusted quickly, sliding a servo up and around the back of Brainstorm’s helm to drag him closer. The kiss had begun clumsy and needy, but as in most things, they quickly found their rhythm. It didn’t take long for the lingering embarrassment to be swept up in a new wave of electrifying desire. 

Brainstorm didn’t kiss with the zeal Perceptor had come to expect from him, but with a gentle thoroughness that was just as illuminating. 

The soft exploration was well and good, Perceptor thought. But Brainstorm needn’t be so shy. His sore frame appreciated the careful touch, but he wasn’t going to _break_. Or flee, for that matter. The time to balk like a turbodeer in the headlights had passed, and his processor was singing with renewed conviction and hunger both. 

He would deal with the consequences later.

He bit at Brainstorm’s lips with just enough force to make his point, and the resounding shiver was intensely gratifying. An arm snaked around his lower back, and pulled him close, and the firm, frame to frame contact was enough to wring an appreciative noise from him. 

Perceptor noted that his core temperature had risen significantly. The pounding in his chest that he had taken for nerves, and then passion, had morphed into a crushing pressure that was impossible to ignore. And though his optics were offline, he had the sense that if he onlined them they’d be swimming. 

He pulled away shakily—regretfully—and Brainstorm let him go. Perceptor couldn’t bring himself to put space between them, however, and he remained close enough to admire the contours of Brainstorm’s face. Stupefaction was a gratifying look on him. 

“You— I— Um,” Brainstorm stammered out, which was amusing from a mech who regularly turned simple explanations into dramatic monologues.

The idea that he might inspire the same kind of speechlessness that Brainstorm did in _him_ was flattering, and it breathed new life into the hope that fluttered weakly in his chest. 

This… complicated matters. It was precisely what he’d been trying to avoid. And yet, even as he battled the rising dizziness brought on by the emotional whiplash of the past few minutes, Perceptor couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He opened his mouth, intending to give voice to that sentiment. 

Unfortunately, that was not what happened. 

Another wave of nausea hit, nearly bowling him over with its intensity. To his horror, what emerged from his mouth was not a sentence, but a slurry of energon and crystalline shards. Brainstorm had been in the direct line of fire, and to Perceptor’s dismay, was now covered in the viscous substance. 

In mute shock, Perceptor reached up to touch his lips. His fingers came away pink. 

Brainstorm was staring in abject horror. He was saying something—more than a little frantically—but Perceptor was too busy trying to stay upright to parse the words. His vision dimmed and blurred, and Brainstorm became little more than a dark, amorphous shape in the foreground. There was a curious ringing in his audials.

Perhaps it _was_ time to call Ratchet.

He didn’t have time to make a decision. Someone twisted the dagger in his spark, and the pain wrenched all thought from him. 

As he lost consciousness, Perceptor thought he could hear Brainstorm faintly calling his name.

***

The first thing that Perceptor noticed upon waking, was the absence of any ache.

The second thing he noticed was that he was unquestionably, wholly alive. 

His frame felt light, in the grips of an alien weightlessness. Was this how it’d been before? He could hardly remember—having grown accustomed to the low throb of an overburdened spark and bruised internals. He onlined his optics briefly—or rather, optic, for the lack of sensory information on his right side indicated that Ratchet had refrained from replacing anything while he'd been out—long enough to acknowledge the medbay lights glaring their disapproval. 

Perceptor held in his sigh. He was alive, yes—which was paramount—but he did not envy the conversation to come. He could acknowledge that he was a stubborn mech, and that occasionally his pride got the best of him. He had the sense that he’d been a bit foolish this time around. 

The third thing that Perceptor noticed was the firm pressure of another’s servo on his. 

He onlined his optic again—more carefully this time—and allowed himself to adjust to the light before looking to his right. Brainstorm sat beside the medberth, clutching his servo like a lifeline, and radiating an expectant, and slightly anxious energy. He hadn’t replaced his mask, and his lips curved downwards with concern. 

He’d been working on something in his lap, but the datapad had clearly been abandoned in lieu of Perceptor’s return to consciousness.

They looked at one another in silence for a moment, and then the relief flooded from Brainstorm’s field, barrelling into him with its intensity. Perceptor still had a difficult time grasping that such strength of emotion could possibly be directed at _him_. 

“Hi,” Brainstorm said.

“Hi,” Perceptor returned softly. He wasn’t sure what else to say. 

Brainstorm shifted to interlock their fingers, and Perceptor looked away with uncharacteristic abashment. 

“Sooo,” Brainstorm said, low and drawn out, “I hear you’ve got a thing for little old me.” The words were casual, but the teasing timbre of his voice gave him away. 

That Brainstorm possessed the levity to poke fun spoke well of Perceptor's prognosis. Perhaps he could chance a bit of optimism after all. 

“I’ve found myself _inexplicably_ fond of you, yes,” he answered dryly. 

Perceptor wondered how much Brainstorm knew. Ratchet was tight-lipped and wholly professional when it came to medical matters, but Brainstorm wasn’t someone who’d allow a thing like medic-patient confidentiality to stop his quest for information. And these were extenuating circumstances. He’d been deeply intertwined in this mess from the start, far before the interaction that had put him in this berth. 

A flicker of heat ignited beneath his armor with the memory, and he cleared his throat. The kiss _had_ occurred, hadn’t it? He hoped sincerely that it hadn’t been a figment of his fever-addled mind, because if so, this was going to be rather embarrassing. 

“Come here,” he said, by which he meant _closer_. He was fairly certain that his memory was intact, but if not, it was something easily rectified. 

Brainstorm shifted uncertainly, but his field spiked with excitement. “I dunno, Perce. It was hard enough to get Ratchet to let me in here. I’ll check with him, but I don’t think your insurance covers that prescription.”

“Counterpoint,” Perceptor began, with what he thought was admirable patience. “I don’t know how long the treatment Ratchet _did_ prescribe me is going to last, and I’d like to kiss you properly—and pain-free—while I have the chance.”

Brainstorm immediately scooted his chair closer, and Perceptor took that as his cue to sit up. He wasn’t prepared for the woozy feeling that swept through him from helm to foot upon rising, and he was grateful for Brainstorm’s steadying arm. 

“_Woah_ there, partner,” Brainstorm said jokingly. 

Perceptor snorted. “I’m fine,” he said, before Brainstorm could continue down the inevitable path of cowboy-themed jokes. And it was true; the vertigo had already faded to next to nothing. 

Brainstorm’s servos were warm where they made contact with his servo and shoulder, and it was simple for Perceptor to turn his head and breach the short distance between them. 

It didn’t go quite as smoothly as he’d hoped; their noses bumped awkwardly at first, and Perceptor lamented the fact that he couldn’t even manage a simple trajectory in Brainstorm’s presence. His grudging huff of laughter was swallowed up by Brainstorm’s valiant efforts to realign them. And from there it was simple.

Their first kiss had been harried and rushed—charged with the things he’d left unsaid. This was a second chance, which Perceptor intended to savour. He memorized the way they fit together—the soft sound that Brainstorm made when he angled his head just _so_. He drew his fingers along Brainstorm’s jawline took note of the way he melted. 

“Alright, you crazy kids—break it up,” ordered Ratchet, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He’d been waiting in the wings, no doubt.

A shame, because Perceptor had been interested to know how Brainstorm would react should he hook his fingers in those enticing cheek vents of his. An experiment for another time. 

Brainstorm laughed as he pulled away—high and breathy, and just a little incredulous—and Perceptor couldn’t help but smile back. Brainstorm’s joy was infectious; it lit up the room and threatened to sweep him away. Brainstorm’s fingers remained interlocked with his, and they tightened almost imperceptibly as they both looked to Ratchet. 

“I don’t think Ratchet here believes in _medicinal love_,” Brainstorm intoned. 

Ratchet crossed his arms. 

“I don’t believe in granting visitation privileges to mouthy smartafts either. Don’t push it.”

Brainstorm mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“Did you even give him the supplement, or were you too busy trying to perform mouth-to-mouth? Which, in case you weren’t aware, only works for oxygen-dependant organics,” Ratchet deadpanned. 

“I was getting to it! He’s been awake all of three minutes; give the mech a chance to celebrate his return to the land of the living, yeesh,” Brainstorm complained, but he was already turning back to the berthside table to retrieve an alarmingly thick cube of energon. 

He pushed the cube towards Perceptor.

“Here’s your nutrient-enriched baby grade crapp-a-chino,” he said. “I put a curly straw in there so it’d look more dignified.”

There was indeed, a fluorescent orange curly straw poking out. It might have been perched precariously, if the viscosity of the energon hadn’t held it upright. Gingerly, Perceptor took the cube from him.

“Ratchet, couldn’t I have someth—” Perceptor began, but then quelled under the look he received. Under Ratchet’s watchful optic, he took a sip, and willed himself not to immediately spit it out. 

It was exactly as foul as he’d anticipated, and left a gritty film that clung to his intake. His face reflected his feelings quite accurately, if Brainstorm’s snort was any indication. 

“Finish that before the end of the cycle,” Ratchet ordered, failing to hide the undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “No arguments.” And then he grew serious once more, looking at Perceptor with a weariness to rival the ancient cosmos. 

“Am I to understand that the progression of my disease has been... halted?” Perceptor prompted, despite the guilt. He hadn’t meant to add to Ratchet’s burden. 

Ratchet grunted an affirmative. “I went in and cleared out most of the growths. Had to leave a few stragglers, so we’re going to have to go in one more time to get the rest—once you’re more recovered. There’ll be scarring. I don’t know how extensive yet, or whether there’ll be any permanent damage. We’re just going to have to wait and see.” 

Perceptor nodded his understanding. It was better than he could have hoped for, though he was still rather confused as to how he’d been freed from his affliction. Unless...

“We’ve been monitoring you, and there’s been very minimal signs of new growth since you came in,” Ratchet continued. “I’m assuming based on _this_—” and here he gestured vaguely at the two of them “—that the primary coding conflict that was causing your processor to tie itself up in knots has been resolved.”

That was an immense relief, if a temporary one. 

“The disease itself remains, however,” Perceptor hedged. 

“It’s an autoimmune disorder. Now that it’s been triggered, I’m sorry to say you’re stuck with it,” Ratchet said. “But it _can_ be managed. There are things we can do to keep it under control if you start experiencing symptoms again, and we’ll keep a close monitor on your spark. With regular checkups, there’s no reason this has to impact your life significantly.” 

“I see.” 

Precisely what he’d hoped to circumvent with all of this, then. 

“More _importantly_,” Ratchet forged on. “You’re seeing Rung on the regular from here on out. You need to learn to manage your emotions _healthily_. Then maybe if this happens again, we can reduce the severity and rate of progression. This is medically prescribed, and non-negotiable.” 

“While I appreciate your efforts,” Perceptor began carefully. “I looked into, and subsequently dismissed each of these strategies as long-term solutions. The reports suggested that they became ineffective after a time, and that those afflicted by the condition ultimately succumbed to the disease.”

Brainstorm’s servo tightened on his, to an almost painful degree. His head whipped around to meet Perceptor’s optics. 

“We’re not gonna let that happen,” he declared. His head whipped back to face Ratchet. “We’re not gonna let that happen, _right_?” 

“_No_, we’re not going to let that happen,’ Ratchet said slowly, as though speaking to a sparkling. “I got those _reports_ from Rewind,” he said, emphasizing the word with air-quotes. And even ignoring the dismal size of your sample pool, I’m surprised that you bought into that functinoist slag.”

“I did take bias into account when reviewing the data,” Perceptor said stiffly. He realized that he hadn’t acted as befitting his intelligence lately, but how far did Ratchet think his academic integrity had fallen? “However, that doesn’t preclude the results. Each of those mecha died, in spite of their treatments.” 

Ratchet snorted. “Yeah? But did you consider that not _one_ of those mecha had the support system they would have needed to get through something like that? More importantly, anyone who _cared_ enough to make sure they did? They saw those poor saps as a problem to be solved. Do you think they were treated as anything other than disposable? That kind of environment isn’t conducive to _healing_.”

Perceptor was silent a moment. He preferred empirical facts to conjecture, but it was true that there had been a focus on the procurement of results above all else. It stood to reason that a disease stemming from the accrual of negative emotion would be difficult to manage in a stressful environment, and that the unethical methods employed by the researchers may have, in fact, introduced additional stressors which had compounded the disease.

Ratchet shook his head. “Rewind dug up a few more files after your little Q&A", he said. He came running to me after he heard that you'd ended up here, and it turns out he’d put two and two together. Did you know that for half of those mecha they simply discontinued treatment because it was holding steady, and not clearing the corruption? That one of their side projects was trying to figure out how to _trigger_ it?” 

With that revelation, Ratchet’s argument suddenly held a lot more weight. 

“And the medicine?” Ratchet said, forging resolutely ahead. “Outdated as all slag. You don’t think we’ve made any advancements since the golden age? We may not have been funneling millions of years of research into this one, rare condition, but we weren’t just twiddling our thumbs.”

“I… see.”

“Don’t even get Rung _started_ on the psychiatry,” Ratchet grumbled. “I’ve already had to listen to that spiel twice, and the gist of it is that they were idiots who should’ve had their licenses revoked years ago.”

“You and I both know that there is a dearth of information regarding this particular affliction,” Perceptor murmured. “I did my best with limited resources, and for that I won’t apologize.”

“You are,” Ratchet growled, “the most thick-headed ‘genius’ I’ve ever had the misfortune to call my friend. I’ve grown to accept a lot of nonsense from this crew. I would’ve expected this kind of brainless nonsense from _him_—” he said, pointing to Brainstorm. 

“Gee, thanks Doc Bot.”

“—but I expected better from _you_. I take back everything I ever said about you being one of the smart ones on this ship.” 

Brainstorm had remained admirably quiet during their conversation—minus the little interjection— but Perceptor could tell it was taking an effort. He was strung tight like a bow, presumably ready to spring to his defense should he need it. Perceptor squeezed his fingers in reassurance.

“I had plans to call on you, should the disease progress beyond my ability to manage,” he said; it was a weak excuse, but it was the truth. 

“It already _had_, you aft. The thing inside you was practically a _tree_. I spent hours digging its roots out of all your vitals.” Ratchet threw his servos up. “You almost _died_, do you understand that? Another week? I couldn’t have fixed this.” 

Perceptor nodded slowly, coming to terms with this new information. He sensed a sore point; knowing Ratchet, he’d be angry at himself for not having spotted the problem, and then again for being nearly too late to reverse the damage. 

“Great, so prove to me—that despite all this mess—you’re still a reasonable mech,” Ratchet said, _Don’t_ try and tell me that you had it handled. Instead, try using that processor I just put so much energy into salvaging.” 

There was a familiar fire burning in Ratchet’s optics—the one that so many mecha feared attracting, because they didn’t realize his temper was a mark of compassion. Ratchet _cared_, an inordinate amount, and he did an even better job of hiding it. The downward twist to his mouth spoke to how concerned he’d been, and knowing the truth, Perceptor wilted. 

He was being an aft, wasn’t he? He and Ratchet had known each other a long time. He’d undoubtedly hurt the other mech by not coming to him for help. It looked as though he’d doubted Ratchet’s ability—not trusted his expertise above his own. 

“Perhaps, I let my pride get the best of me,” he admitted slowly. “As well as my... anxieties.” He supposed that was the first time he’d ever said as such aloud. “I imagine it’s put a lot of undue stress on you, and for that I _am_ sorry. I will endeavor to make it up to you.”

It was a promise he very much wanted to keep. Disappointing Ratchet was not a feat to be proud of, and he imagined he’d destroyed much of the trust they’d built over the years. Not to mention, it was generally unwise to have one’s physician angry with you. 

Ratchet nodded curtly at the cube of energon. 

“See that you finish that. Rest. I’ll be back to check on you every hour, so no funny business.” The last part had been directed meaningfully at Brainstorm, who finally let go of his servo to hold his own in the air—the picture of innocence. 

“Who me? Perish the thought.” 

“Wish that I could,” Ratchet grumbled, as he pushed his way back into the main area of medbay. He paused in the doorway, and cleared his throat. 

“Look, I know you’re set on a cure, and I can’t offer that right now,” he grumbled. “But for the record, I don’t care _what_ you do with your spare time, as long as you’re coming in for regular checkups—and _treatment_. Capiche?”__

“And should I take a scalpel to my own frame again, I presume you’ll finish the job?” Perceptor asked dryly. He doubted that unsupervised, invasive procedures were on Ratchet’s list of pre-approved activities.

“Now you’re getting it.”

Ratchet left. 

Perceptor’s head reeled with the possibilities. He _did_ want to continue his research, but an immense pressure had been lifted from his shoulders. He was no longer propelled by a ticking clock—the belief that he was racing his inevitable demise in his quest for a permanent solution.

Ratchet's lecture had led him to realize the depths to which his obsession had gone, and he wondered if they couldn't work on that solution together. A medic’s expertise might prove the steadying servo he needed, to keep himself from losing sight of what was important.

There was still the issue of his missing optic, he mused. Recent conversations had suggested that he'd been approaching the decision from an entirely wrong angle—that he'd been acting as though either option would define him entirely. The reticle had been born through trauma, certainly, but it was also a testament to his survival. Repairing the physical damage would do nothing to erase the past, and as this ordeal had taught him, avoidance was seldom the path of meaningful improvement. He thought he might consult Rung on the matter, but had a suspicion that he would be declining Ratchet's offer once more.

Perceptor was realizing how much the omnipresence of the disease had influenced his decisions. He’d been overtaxed, and overheated—plagued by a low-grade pain that’d flared more and more frequently to excruciating as time went on. His frame had been channeling energy in a vain attempt to fix faulty neural and extant connections, leaving him little extra energy to _think_. 

If his mind had been a tumultuous sea before, now it was a cool, glassy pond.

Brainstorm rapped gently on the side of his helm.

“Cybertron to Percy. You in there? Hello?”

“Apologies,” he sighed. “It has been a rather trying month, and I’m realizing that I have a great deal I need to correct.” 

“There'll be plenty of time for damage control later,” Brainstorm said. “For now, we’re celebrating the fact that when you fell into my arms—props for dramatic effect, by the way—it wasn’t a permanent, sleeping beauty kind of deal.”

Perceptor winced. Speaking of apologies.

“Brainstorm, I—” 

A finger pressed against his lips.

“Shhh, don’t ruin the moment.” 

He raised an eyebrow ridge. 

“Okay, moment’s over,” said Brainstorm, and then he kissed him, and Perceptor couldn’t find any reason to argue. 

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re gonna talk,” Brainstorm said, a minute later, and a little breathless. Perceptor had spent the better part of it mapping out the kibble within his reach, and he’d already begun a reference file. “I’ll tell you all the ways you fragged up, and you’ll probably argue for the sake of it, even though we’ll both know I’m right. But let’s just enjoy this for now, okay?” 

Perceptor swallowed around the emotion welling up in his intake. 

“Okay,” he agreed. But that seemed a tepid response, and he was tempted to let his as of yet unvoiced confession spill forth. “Though allow me to clarify one point, for the sake of expediency.” 

“Yeah?” 

Brainstorm tensed marginally, and Perceptor tried not to let it bother him. Ratchet wasn’t the only bot whose trust he’d wounded. It would heal, with time and effort.

“I love you,” he said, matter-of-fact. The truth of it curled down his chest and into the hollows of his struts, and though Brainstorm had likely guessed as much already, he lit up with the force of a supernova. 

“Don’t think that gets you out of the hot seat,” he warned, but his smile negated the effect. “You’re still going to make it up to me.” 

“How so?” asked Perceptor, a smile tugging at his own lips. 

“I mean, the Doc said I outta keep you in bed,” Brainstorm countered with a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle, and Perceptor couldn’t help but snort. 

“I have the sense that you’re going to ruin my reputation,” he observed, with no heat. 

Brainstorm’s grin grew wider. 

A tiny sliver of caution remained lodged in his spark, and Perceptor knew it would be some time before it shook itself loose. But he wouldn’t allow that doubt to fester—to rot away this chance at happiness. 

It wasn’t perfect, he thought, as Brainstorm began catching him up on everything that he’d missed in the _two days?_ that he’d been indisposed, but then again, life wasn’t perfect. It was messy and inconvenient, disorganized, and frustratingly difficult to navigate.

It was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> One week later, Perceptor gets released, and he and Brainstorm make their way to Swerve’s for their First Official Date (picking apart conference livestreams in medbay doesn’t count). Percy isn’t allowed any engex, which makes him huffy, and the date inevitably blows up into scientific debate- only this time Brainstorm kisses him to shut him up. Percy tells Brainstorm that if he ever does it again, he’s gluing his wings to the berth, but he's smiling. He sends Nightbeat and Nautica drinks to apologize for being such a dingus. Life goes on. 
> 
> Art by Cerkowah on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cerkowah/status/1163852378736484353?s=20).  
Art by DuboisSiloe/Shadow on [twitter](https://twitter.com/DuboisSiloe/status/1163844676052500481), tumblr, and [IG](https://www.instagram.com/p/B1ZFzrjI6lT/?igshid=z1j96qdws9wd).  
Art by Emporianne/Ying on [tumblr](https://emporianne.tumblr.com/post/187150726198/heres-one-of-my-pieces-for-tfbigbang-a-little). 
> 
> If you were wondering why all of my Tumblr accounts are dead, it’s because I’ve moved to Twitter. You can follow my life and fic updates @spidingsadly. I’ve also put a list of WIPs on my ao3 profile, and I’ll try to keep that fairly updated. 
> 
> Finally, If you liked this fic, I’d love to hear your thoughts!


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